


Well I am lying in your shadows

by MalachiTamim



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, High School, Homophobia, Lexa point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 67,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalachiTamim/pseuds/MalachiTamim
Summary: Your dad has turned you into a fearful shell of person who no longer knows who she is. It's only when Clarke, your former best friend who betrayed you in middle school, re-enters your life that things start to seem a little more bearable. And it turns out she needs you too.TW: Emotional/psychological child abuse





	1. Chapter 1

“What did I even do this summer?” You demand of Anya who’s sitting in front of you in Spanish class. It’s the first day of your junior year, and your teacher had given you the assignment to write about six things you had done over summer break. So far you’ve written about playing soccer, reading books, running, and hanging out with friends. What else was there? Everything else had sucked. Your family situation? Not so great. It made for a kind of terrible summer. You pick up your pencil and pretend to write. “Got yelled at,” you say, your voice dry.

A snort of amusement from the girl behind you pulls you around in your chair. You lock eyes with Clarke for a full second before Anya’s voice breaks through to you. “You don’t know how to say it in Spanish. Even if you did, you can’t write that. What will Señora say?”

You push down the stab of discomfort you feel at Anya’s words. You can’t think about this now. You can’t think about this ever. A semi self-imposed, suffocating silence binds your tongue and your mind, but it’s better than facing the fact that things at home are bad. Really bad, actually. And Anya knows bits of it, but she doesn’t seem to realize how bad it is because she often brushes aside the veiled and desperate comments you sometimes make. You can’t really blame her because your parents don’t put a hand on you. That doesn’t mean you’re unharmed, exactly. But you can’t think about that either because at least Anya kind of believes you, and so few do. Most are content to believe your parents who are teachers in the school district, so you keep your mouth shut except with specific people. Since Anya is one of those people, you force aside that train of thought and focus on the assignment. 

School is easy, but Spanish class is a joke, so you and Anya finish early and start planning events for your school’s volunteer club. She’s the VP and you’re the president, so it keeps you busy. Between cross-country, school, volunteering, club soccer, and church on Sundays, you’re mostly just at home to sleep. And that is how you want it, how you need it, really. When you’re busy, you know who you are; but when you’re home, things are confusing. Your dad does everything he can to take away your identity, your sense of self, and your mom is powerless to stop it. All you can do is try to protect your little brother Aden from the same fate. He is only a year younger than you are and too old for you to truly protect. You usually end up looking out for each other. But you’re breaking your rule. You can’t think about this, so you tune into students’ presentations on what they had done over the summer.

It isn’t until Clarke passes you as you’re walking out of class that you remember the odd moment. “Did you hear Clarke laugh at my joke?” you ask Anya. You aren’t sure why it matters, but you know it will nag you until you talk it out with someone. 

Anya shoots you a glance out of the side of her eyes. “Don’t do this, kid. Don’t try to rekindle that friendship. I know you remember what happened.”

And you did remember. It was a rather traumatic experience. You and Clarke had been best friends throughout elementary school, but then when you got to middle school Clarke had become distant and started spreading rumors about how you were gay. In your small, conservative town, there was no worse thing to be. People turned against you, which was pretty terrible and scary. It was also especially frustrating because you are. not. gay. What had really, really hurt was that Clarke had abandoned you for people who were cooler than you. Your mom had told you Clarke was jealous because you’d always been better at school and sports. It was probably true. It was definitely true. You’d known Clarke was jealous; you just didn’t think she’d sink that low. Still you’d gotten over it and moved on. You had other friends, but it still stung that your best friend had betrayed you like that. You hold your friends close because you need them on your side. Betrayal is something you can’t accept. 

Recently, though, Clarke’s life had fallen apart in a very public way. Her dad had fallen in love with another man. No one knew too many details, but the basics were enough. Clarke’s dad was an engineer, and her mom was a state senator. During her last run for office, the secret was leaked that Clarke’s dad was in love with another man. So she divorced him, and he moved away. The hateful part of you, the part you keep well hidden, thinks it was poetic justice. “Of course I do, but it’s not like I’m actually gay, so that doesn’t matter. Maybe she’s changed. Maybe she needs her old friends back.”

At that, Anya’s eyes soften inexplicably. “Okay, Lex,” she says softly. You don’t understand what you missed for Anya to react like that, but it seems like something big. “Either way,” she says, resuming her usual tone, “after what she did to you, she deserved what happened with her dad.” Okay, so Anya’s hateful streak isn’t hidden quite so far down as yours. 

“Uncalled for,” you respond sharply. You don’t know exactly why you are defending Clarke, but Anya had gone too far. “No one deserves that.”

Anya just shakes her head, leaving you confused, and you walked together to the locker room to get changed for cross-country practice. 

 

…  
That afternoon is utter garbage. You’re usually second only to Anya in cross-country workouts, but today you barely manage to hang with the fourth and fifth runners. When your coach pulls you aside after practice, taking up the precious few minutes you have to eat the dinner you packed before your mom has to drive you to soccer practice thirty miles away, it feels like he’s chiding you. You know you should do better, but it’s hard. Things are better now that you have your insulin pump. It’s made your blood sugar easier to control. But you’re still not as quick to spring back from workouts as your teammates, and no one quite understands that. Your coach asks you how much you’re running per week, and when you tell him thirty-five miles plus two nights of soccer practice and one to four games on the weekends, he tells you maybe you should drop one of your sports. You tell him he might not like what you choose, and you can’t read his expression. But he drops your mileage, so you assume he’s disappointed in you. It’s only years later you consider that maybe he cares about you and your body apart from how you perform.

Soccer practice is awful too. It seems to be the day to talk to coaches because your soccer coach pulls you aside during the water break to ask you about the email you’d sent him the week before. Your stomach drops uncomfortably, and your body flows with adrenaline. Oh no. You’d forgotten about that. You’d intentionally forgotten how your dad had stood behind you and dictated an email to your coach, saying you were disappointed in his coaching and that if things didn’t get better, you’d be forced to look for a new team. You say, “I’m so sorry, Coach Gustus!” You don’t know what you say after that, but somehow you must convince him you didn’t mean what you’d written. You think you slip and allow a “my dad” to escape from your lips, but maybe not. When he asks a final time if you’re unhappy with anything, you tell him no. It’s only years later you consider that he meant more than just soccer.

But at least your mom drove you, so you can lean back and relax without having to worry about displaying weakness. She only asks you once about your blood sugar. Small victories, you suppose. 

You’re starving when you get home. Between the diabetes and enough exercise for four people, you have a hard time eating enough. You weigh the costs and benefits of taking time to eat something when your dad is snoring away in the living room, napping in full view of the kitchen. It’s not really a decision because you’re SO HUNGRY. You heat up leftover cabbage lasagna and make yourself as small as possible, hoping he won’t notice you. Your mom shrinks in on herself the second she walks inside, but she taps you on the shoulder and whispers, “Insulin.” You pull out your pump from the little pocket you’d sewn into the inside of your soccer shorts, giving yourself what you guess is probably the right amount. The microwave counts down to zero, but you open it quickly before it can beep. It takes you less than two minutes to scarf down the bowl of food and bolt upstairs; years of practice of moving silently mean you know what step to skip because it squeaks.

A wave to Aden, a quick shower, and you collapse into your bed, exhausted. It was a shit afternoon, but at least you managed to avoid your dad. You’re drifting off to sleep when the walls you keep up all day long fall, and you let yourself wish for a different life. You remember back to when you were little and Jake, Clarke’s dad, would play soccer with both of you. Yours would too, but he was always serious and would put you down if you messed up. Jake would play just for fun. And he’d always give you a hug before you left. No, you think. Whatever Clarke had done to you, she and Jake didn’t deserve what had happened. Despite your exhaustion, it still takes over an hour for you to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi team. I wasn't planning on posting this for awhile--maybe ever, but then apparently someone wrote an offensive Clexa fic and the best line of defense is pushing it back in the tags? Dunno, but that's what tumblr said. Anyway, this is about 3/4 ready to be posted, so be kind. I guess I'm planning on posting maybe 5 chapters? Not sure. Like I said, this was unplanned. Find me on tumblr (balagantamim) if you have questions or what not. 
> 
> Title from "Hey Adam" by Mandolin Orange.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Clarke is sleeping soundly behind you. You’re doing your best to block her from view of the teacher, but you know you don’t succeed when Señora rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to shout and startle Clarke awake. You manage to catch her eye and give her a shake of your head. Clarke obviously needs sleep because this isn’t like her. You understand; there are some classes where you feel comfortable enough to give up the act of being okay. This must be one of Clarke’s. For some reason—you’re not sure what but there must be something in your expression that convinces her—your head shake works, and Señora lets out a little sigh and continues with her explanation of imperfect verbs. When Señora passes out notecards to write down verb paradigms, you sneak an extra to make a copy for Clarke. She’s not missing much. Clarke might not be quite at your level in school, but she’s close. She’s definitely smart enough to memorize a few paradigms and figure out how they work.

When the bell rings, Clarke still doesn’t wake up. You have a moment of panic, but you have to do something. After two failed attempts where you chicken out with your hand inches away from her, you finally manage to gently tap her shoulder, and she opens an eye obscured by her wavy blonde hair. It takes all of your might to ignore the swooping feeling low in your belly and hold back a soft smile; instead, you think you stare at her blankly, your expression mirrored in hers. Anya coughs, her impatience shattering the moment, and you slide the notecard onto Clarke’s desk. You don’t quite manage to hold back the soft smile after all.

 

…  
That afternoon you don’t get quite so lucky as earlier in the week; your dad is the one who picks you up to drive you to soccer. On the drive there he asks you about your grades. You know it’s a trap. You know if you say school is easy, he’ll say you’re underachieving –that you should be taking harder classes. But if you admit that you’d gotten a B on your Calculus test earlier that week, he’d say you were underachieving –that you weren’t trying, or if it was a bad day, you’d get a lecture about how stupid you are. You’d learned long ago that there was no winning. So you try your best to be vague.

“They’re okay.”

“That’s not an answer, Marie.” Oh no. It’s a really bad day when he calls you by your middle name. “When I ask you something, I expect an answer.”

You inhale and try to center yourself. You don’t know why you’re scared; it’s not like he’ll hit you or anything. But at the same time you do know why you’re scared. You’re afraid that you’re stupid, and the way he tells you over and over and over is just confirmation of that. You’re afraid he’ll call you a narcissist and say that you think the world revolves around you. You’re afraid he’ll say you only care about yourself. And you’re afraid he’s right. You clench your hands against the fear, trying to quell the trembling, and strategize. You can’t lie. If you lie, he’ll know. He is not above contacting your teachers; he’s done it before. But oh no oh no, there is no right answer. He’s made sure of it. “They’re fine. I’m doing well. I got an A on my English paper that I got back today.” You school your features into a neutral expression and brace yourself for his response.

“You shouldn’t be in that class,” he says, jumping on the opportunity. His lecture voice takes over, louder than his speaking voice, though not quite yelling. And so condescending. “I told you you should be in the AP class. Taking classes with your friends isn’t going to get you into college. Your athletic performances lately aren’t strong enough to make up for your lack of AP classes. You need to be better. Do you understand?”

You don’t mention that you’re in AP bio and AP calc and doing well in both. You don’t mention how tired you are all the time from training so much. Instead, you murmur, “Yes.” You will try to do better because you want him to be proud of you.

Soccer practice goes well. Practice is fun, and you love your teammates, though you don’t know them that well because you don’t go to school with any of them, and you’re rather shy. By the end, your legs are shaking from exhaustion, from the 9 miles you ran before practice and two hours of hard playing. As you walk to the car, you can feel that blood sugar is low, so you dig through your bag for your glucose meter and some fruit Mentos. You’re distracted and exhausted and shaky, so your defenses aren’t raised to fend off the attack.

The second you close the car door, your dad says, “Why don’t you ever talk to your teammates? I pay a lot of money for you to be on this team, and you’re not making an effort to connect with them. You might need these connections to get looked at by good schools. You’re always so antisocial.” He shakes his head at you.

“I have friends,” you have the audacity to remark. Low blood sugar always makes you cranky.

“You say you have friends, but you always sit there silently without engaging with anyone. What do you offer them? They talk and have fun, and you just sit there! They only let you spend time with them because they feel bad for you. If you don’t start talking to people, they’re going to stop inviting you.”

You know responding to that will only get you in trouble, so you just nod silently. Logically you realize that he’s wrong; he doesn’t know how you act around your friends when he’s not around. You are quiet, but you do talk. You’re witty, and your friends tell you how much they love that about you. But in the back of your mind, you still worry he’s right. It’s hard to judge yourself objectively, so maybe he’s seeing something you’re not. You’ll think about it from now on, and you’ll be cautious around your friends to determine if he’s right. Maybe that’s letting him into your head, letting him win, but it’s better to be safe than a fool.

 

…  
One of the things you hate most about high school is group projects and especially debates. In your speech class, your teacher has the brilliant idea to divide the class into groups and give you different topics to debate. Since it is a class required for everyone, it’s mostly full of dunderheads. And Clarke and her friends, Raven and Wells. The teacher sticks you in the group debating in favor of same-sex marriage. You are not thrilled with the arrangement, especially when you are pretty sure you aren’t imagining your classmate’s smirks. The gay rumors had subsided in middle school, but you certainly haven’t forgotten, and you doubt they have either. 

It is a basic debate. Some kids make good points. Other kids make moronic ones. You roll your eyes as you try to salvage the stutters and incoherent statements that your team makes. For the most part you don’t venture into actually making arguments. The exception is when the con side says that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because of homosexuality.

You don’t know how you keep your eyes from rolling out of your head, and you can’t keep yourself from responding, “That’s false.” 

“No it’s not. It says it in the Bible. Genesis 19,” some kid named Finn insists. You hate him for a number of reasons, but mostly because he dated Clarke a few years ago and cheated on her.

“I know what Genesis 19 says,” you say with forced calm. “Which is how I know that it says nothing about homosexuality. The term ‘sodomite’ in reference to homosexuality has no basis before the 6th century CE.”

Finn turns red. “Well then why was Sodom destroyed?”

“The Bible is conflicted about that,” you explain. “It offers different reasons, none of which are conclusive. If we limit our search to Genesis, it seems that Sodom is destroyed because the people were being too noisy.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Finn scoffs at you.

“It’s a common trope in the ancient Near East, actually. The people are too noisy, and the gods destroy them because they can’t sleep.” It’s true. You’d done research on it after one too many sermons about the evils of homosexuality. 

You kind of lose track of the debate after that, especially since the way you shut Finn down seems to give confidence to your team. You win, and you heave a little sigh of relief. It seems a small instance of the ark of the universe bending toward justice. And you don’t get a lot of those where you live. 

Throughout the whole debate, you somehow manage to avoid looking at Clarke, though it feels like your whole self is being pulled in her direction. You know everyone in class is sneaking glances at her, and you won’t be one of them. It’s only after closing statements are made and Ms. Indra pronounces your team the winner that you hear the jackass comment of the century from an idiot named Murphy: “Whew. Good news, Clarke. At least God’s not going to strike your dad dead. Better thank Indra for throwing the debate.”

You feel your hands clench into fists, this time out of rage. Obviously you won’t hit him. That’s not who you are. But it’s also not you to sit by and allow people to bully those who can’t fight back. Clarke’s capable, you know, but she and the rest of the class seem to be stunned. “Shut up, Murphy,” you say, your voice trembling with anger. “Don’t be a jerk just because you’re jealous Clarke’s dad actually likes her.” That was a low blow, and you know it. You hate that you’re good at getting to the heart of what hurts people. It’s a skill you’ve learned sitting at the feet of your father. The worst part is that you have no remorse about it. But at least it shuts him up and draws a tightlipped smile from Clarke. 

 

…  
At the beginning of Spanish class, Clarke asks to go to the bathroom. She’s obviously still shaken from Murphy’s comments last period, and you’re not surprised. You’re a little shaken, and you don’t even really like Clarke! You’re also worried that she’s upset with you for your insensitive comment toward Murphy. So you do the only thing you can think to do. You say, “Señora, may I please go to the bathroom?”

“When Miss Griffin comes back,” she answers, not looking up from whatever she’s reading on her desk. 

That will not suffice for obvious reasons, so you say, “But it’s an emergency!”

Señora sighs, but she actually looks at you this time. “You know the rules, Alicia.” You hate the concept of Spanish names. If you ever travel to Mexico or Spain, it’s not like you will tell them your name is Alicia! That would be absurd. You would tell them your name is Lexa because…well…your name is Lexa. But the rules are that you have to pick a Spanish name, so you had swallowed your protests and picked the first one on the list.

A reprise of your hatred of Spanish names will do nothing to remedy this situation, so you resort to desperate measures. You pull a tampon out of your bag. “Please?” you ask, waving the tampon in the air. This is so not like you, but you don’t have another solution. “I really can’t wait.”

Your ploy works, and you scoot past a shocked Anya to sign out and head for the closest bathroom. The bathrooms in your school are gross and filled with cigarette and sometimes pot smoke. Sometimes the teachers resort to locking them to prevent kids from smoking and writing the occasional bomb threat. It makes things extremely annoying. There are few things worse than having to pee, only having four minutes to pee, and having to run around the school trying to find an unlocked bathroom. Today you’re lucky because the nearest bathroom is unlocked, and Clarke is splashing water on her face at the sink. 

“Hi,” you say. You’re not really sure why you’re here. You know you want Clarke to be okay, but you’re not sure how to make sure she is. People are difficult to figure out. So you fidget, touching each finger to your thumb and adjusting your Polis cross-country t-shirt. 

“Hey,” she replies. Her voice is dull, and she’s refusing to look at you, but from the weird angle you can see of her in the mirror, you can tell her blue eyes are rimmed with red. “How’d you get Señora to let you leave without a pass?” Wordlessly, you hold up the tampon, and she lets out a broken chuckle. “God, you’re like the best person in the world. I never know what you’re going to do.”

Her words fill you with a curious heat, like it’s a cold day and you swallowed hot chocolate that warms you the whole way down. But you can’t say that. So instead, you say, “Are you okay?”

“Um,” Clarke kind of huffs with laughter. You understand. It was a stupid question. “Trying to be, I guess. No one’s said anything to my face yet, so I was caught off guard. Since you’re never off guard, you managed to salvage a shitty situation.” You nod without a word. “Anyway, I know you probably hate me and that I deserve it. But I do really appreciate what you did. Thanks.”

You want to tell her you’re pretty much always caught off guard or that you hate yourself for hurting Murphy or “You’re welcome.” What you actually blurt out is: “I don’t hate you.” You figure it could be worse. 

“Well, that’s one good thing, I guess.” Before you can say anything else, Clarke opens the bathroom door and leaves. Since you’re already there, and you don’t know when you’ll be able to find another open bathroom, you decide to pee.

 

…  
It’s the second Monday of the month, which means your dad has a school board meeting and that you have a night of freedom. After cross-country practice, your mom picks you and your brother up, and you get to go home. You have a tradition for these nights. Instead of hiding upstairs and being as silent as possible, the three of you make macaroni and cheese and sloppy joes from scratch. With “Gilmore Girls” on in the background, you chat about your days as you and Aden get started on the cheese sauce, while your mom takes care of browning and spicing the beef.

Aden tells you about how his arch nemesis asked a girl to homecoming for him. Unfortunately, you know the girl has a huge crush on Aden and that he doesn’t feel the same way, so you and your mom are justifiably outraged. Your mom tells you a funny story about her kids. She’s a K-2nd grade Life Skills teacher, so she often has wonderful stories and amazing adventures—like the time she accidentally left a kid in the elevator. But today, they were talking about what they wanted to be when they grow up. One said he wanted to be a pilot, another a helicopter, and one little boy said he wanted to be seven. The three of you crack up. It’s your turn, so you tell them an edited version of what transpired today with Clarke. You don’t want to talk about the gay stuff, but the rest of the Clarke stuff you can talk about. 

By the time you’re done talking, the food is ready, and as your mom hands you a plate, she brushes back your curls from your face. “You’re my favorite daughter,” she tells you. You know it’s silly, you know you’re her only daughter, but it still pulls your lips into the special smile you save just for her. She’s not perfect; she doesn’t protect you from your dad. But you still love her. She lets you eat a bit of macaroni and cheese even though pasta is full of the carbs that make your blood sugar spike, and you’ll have to use more insulin. As the three of you watch “Gilmore Girls” and laugh together, you think that this his how family is supposed to feel. If your dad would just leave, you could feel like this all the time. But you know that will never happen, so you enjoy the freedom you have today. 

 

…  
A few weeks later, you somehow miraculously have an afternoon off. After school, you don’t have any practices or meetings, though Aden has marching band, so you head outside the natatorium lobby doors after calling your dad and telling him you’re ready for a ride. It’s nice outside, so you don’t want to be stuck in the hot and humid and chlorine filled lobby. You sit down and just as you’re reaching into your backpack to retrieve your book, a tennis ball bounces off your forehead. Before you have a chance to think, you catch it on the rebound and whip it back in the direction it came from. It makes a satisfying thwack! against Anya’s chest.

“Hey!” she shouts. “Uncool! I didn’t throw it. Lincoln did.”

That’s when you notice the laughing Lincoln walking next to her. “I’m sorry,” you say, and you are a little sorry. “It was a reflex. You may hit Lincoln twice if it would make you feel better.” A laugh bubbles out of you when she takes you up on the offer. 

They sit next to you for awhile and chat for awhile. Lincoln invites you both to a local coffee shop to watch him and his girlfriend play. She plays the bongos (and all drums, but she’ll be playing the bongos tonight), and he plays the guitar and sings. Sometimes Anya joins them on keyboard, but she’s been busy with cross-country lately and hasn’t had much time to practice with them. You conditionally agree, provided your parents let you. Anya offers you a ride, so there shouldn’t be a problem. They head out soon after. And again, just before you can get your book, someone else distracts you.

“Fuck you, mom!” you hear, and you look up to see Clarke hanging up on her mom.

“Hanging up on people was much more satisfying when everyone had flip phones,” you say before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, the scowl on her face melts off, and she bursts into laughter. “Thanks,” she says, taking a seat next to you. “I needed that. My car won’t start, and my mom said she can’t leave work to come pick me up. So I guess I’m stuck here.”

“My dad’s coming in a few minutes if you want a ride.”

Clarke looked uncertain. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you go out of your way.”

You’re not sure if Clarke is trying to be polite about not wanting to be around you because that excuse doesn’t make any sense. “You don’t have to accept,” you say hesitantly, “but we live on the same road. You’re on our way home. It’s not at all out of our way.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’d really appreciate that. I don’t want to have to bother Octavia or Raven.” You examine Clarke’s face for any signs that she’s being disingenuous, but you don’t find any. She seems to be truly relieved to not have to infringe on one of her friends. 

You’re not really sure how to talk to Clarke, so you pick up your phone to call your mom to get permission to go tonight, but she doesn’t answer. So you call the home phone that your parents for some reason have decided is absolutely necessary. You hope your mom will be home. But your dad picks up on the third ring. Without thinking, you say, “You haven’t left yet?”

“I’ll come when I come. Are you just calling to tell me to hurry up?”

You panic a little, but you don’t want Clarke to see. “No,” you say calmly. Rationality is the best way to go in these situations even when you don’t feel it. “I didn’t think you’d be home. I was calling to ask mom if it’s okay if I go to watch Lincoln play tonight.”

“Why couldn’t you wait until I got there? Are you scared of me?” 

You hate that he’s mocking you. You hate it. “No. I just wanted to ask as early as possible in case you or mom made plans.” And you also hate that this is necessary, that you’re probably failing a test, but you really do need him to come pick you up. “But can you please leave soon? Clarke Griffin is stranded and needs a ride home. She’s waiting here with me.” It’s as neutral as you can make it, but you know it’s still going to be bad for you.

Your dad grumbles a bit, but hangs up. Hopefully he’ll actually keep his word. When you hang up, you realize Clarke is looking at you curiously. Thankfully she doesn’t ask anything. There are a lot of things you don’t want to talk about. Relief courses through you when she starts talking to you about your classes. That’s a safe subject.

Ten minutes later, your dad drives up in his ancient Saturn with its chipped purple paint. Your parents had gotten it on your fifth birthday; your mom said they chose purple because it was your favorite color. You’re shaking as you climb into the passenger’s seat. You hope that since Clarke is in the car you’ll be safe until you get home. There’s no such luck.

There’s nothing in the way of greeting. You’re met with a beat of silence and then, “Your behavior today is unacceptable. You’re ungrateful for what you have, and you make demands instead of asking permission. You think you run the house. You just assume you can do whatever you want and that we’ll go along with it. Clarke would never do that.”

You chance a glance in the mirror at Clarke who is steadfastly looking at the window, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. “What do you mean? I did ask permission. I called to ask permission to go tonight. I didn’t make any demands.”

“Do you know what asking permission sounds like? You have to ask. You have to say please and thank you. You can’t only ask your mother. You have to ask me too. And that’s another thing. Why couldn’t you wait until I got here? What’s so important that you have to be home immediately? Did you really need to call? You’re ungrateful and think the world revolves around you. But guess what? It doesn’t. Sometimes you have to wait for things, and sometimes you can’t do things. It’s my house so I don’t have to give a reason if I don’t want you to go somewhere. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He’s jumped from topic to topic so fast that you genuinely don’t understand. You wish you did, but you don’t, and you can’t say that you don’t, so you lie. “Yes.”

“What did I say?”

You take a deep breath. This is pretty much your nightmare. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I’m trying to understand, but I don’t know what you’re saying because I did ask permission.”

“That’s not the issue here.”

He continues on and on until you reach Clarke’s house. She kind of squeezes your shoulder as she slips out the door and murmurs a quiet thanks. Then he continues on and on until your mom tells you that you can certainly go to the coffee shop with Anya and Lincoln. She overrides your dad, and you’ve never been so grateful. 

 

…  
School on Monday makes you uncomfortable. You wish you didn’t have to see Clarke because you’re not sure how to act around her now. No one had ever seen your dad treat you like that, so you don’t know what the protocol is. You’re really good when you have a social script to follow, when you know generally what to expect, but this is unknown territory. It’s enough to cause you a lot of anxiety. 

Your days are Clarke-less until the last two periods. Speech class is nerve-wracking because you think she’s going to say something, but she completely ignores you. She overtly ignores you, in fact, which you know because you keep chancing glances at her. She’s focused on Raven instead. You’ve always thought you might quite like Raven. Like everyone in the school, you know she wears a leg brace to help her walk, but you don’t know why. Even though kids sometimes stare at her, she refuses to take any crap from anyone, and pretty much always speaks her mind. She’s also brilliant, easily the top science student in the school. You do wish she didn’t refer to you, Anya, and Lincoln as ‘undergrounders’ or ‘grounders’ for short, though. Certainly you’re less popular than her crew, but it’s still always seemed unnecessarily rude to you.

Your anxiety has pretty much subsided by the time you get last block. It seems the protocol is to pretend nothing happened. You can work with that. What you absolutely do not expect is for Clarke to pull you aside in the hallway after class. She does it in front of everyone. You can’t decide if you’re more astonished she is willing to be seen with you in a very public and crowded area or if you’re more uncomfortable that this is happening. 

You’re so worked up that you almost miss her words: “I just want to say that I’m sorry I was there for that on Friday. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it made you.”

You hadn’t really thought about that yet. It seems counterintuitive, but you try really hard not to think about these things. “It’s okay,” you tell her.

“Does he—is he always like that?” 

For some reason, her hesitant and gentle tone combined with your subtle nod brings tears to your eyes. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried since you were twelve. But when she pulls you in for a hug, you don’t know what to do. No one really touches you. It takes a hard swallow to hold back the sobs that are aching to come out. What touches you most is when she asks for your number and tells you to let her know if you ever need anything. You barely manage to choke out a “You too.”

When you reach your Spanish classroom, it’s like your conversation has been forgotten. But you think about that Friday afternoon now. You’re embarrassed that Clarke witnessed what was going on, but you are also so, so grateful. Sometimes you think you’re going crazy because no one ever sees it. But she had, and she’d validated that it was unfair. Maybe it was the best thing that could have happened.

 

…  
It’s another soccer practice night. You have more energy today, partially thanks to a quiet weekend, but mostly because of Clarke. Somehow the extra energy gives you the confidence to joke around with your teammates. It gets so out of hand that your coach has to reprimand you. You might be able to play through stitches of laughter, but your teammates seem to have more of a problem with it. Apparently, you’re distracting them. 

It’s a great day until you get home. The second you and your mom walk through the door, your dad tells you about how one of his students lost everything in a house fire. He tells you to go up to your room to pick out some clothes to donate to her. This gives you pause—specifically, the kind of pause where you freeze in fear. It’s not that you are opposed to the idea of donating clothes, but you don’t have that many. You have a ton of sports clothes because that’s pretty much all you wear aside from church. You have a few pairs of jeans, a pair of khakis, a pair of black pants, and four dressy shirts. So, you’re not opposed to the idea of donating clothes, but you don’t really have any to give. Voicing as much goes about as well as expected.

“You’re telling me that if I go up to your closet, I won’t find anything to give away?” your dad’s voice is dripping with disdain.

“I can give a couple of t-shirts, I guess.”

“Wow,” he responds. “I can’t believe you’re so selfish. I thought we raised you better than that. I didn’t think we’d raised such a greedy daughter.”

Guilt trips just invoke anger in you, so you have to physically bite your tongue to withhold a cutting response. Your mom chimes in then to your great relief. “Lexa really doesn’t have that many clothes. What size is the girl in your class? Maybe we can figure something out between the two of us.”

Your dad checks the note he has in his phone. “She’s a large or extra large.”

Both you and your mom chance a confused glance at each other. This makes no sense. You’re a size small. Unequivocally. Even a medium is like a dress on you. If you didn’t feel so helpless, you would laugh.

Thankfully your mom fields the question. “Honey…how do you think she’s going to fit into Lexa’s clothes? I have a few things that might work, but Lexa doesn’t have anything in those sizes.”

“Well, I can find someone else to give them to.”

You escape upstairs before it can turn into a real argument. You’ll need to eat something at some point, but you decide you can take a shower and hang out with Aden until this whole mess can be sorted out. Aden is a sweet kid, too sweet, really. Middle school was rough for him, but he’s flourished in high school. He’s lost his baby fat and has started excelling in cross-country and track. Now most of your friends are joint friends. In fact, you’re pretty sure Anya likes him better than she likes you. So it’s not that surprising that he lets you curl up next to him in his twin bed to watch “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix on his iPad. 

Eventually your mom comes upstairs and, with a defeated shrug, tells you to pick out a couple of shirts to give away. Before you can voice your concern—that you won’t have anything to wear to church—she tells you she’ll buy you some more.

“That doesn’t make sense!” you protest with frustration. Nothing makes sense. You hate so much about how you can’t predict what will happen from day to day because your dad lacks consistency and logic. Why do you not have control of anything in your life?

“Please, Lexa? I don’t want to fight.” Your mom’s pinched expression is enough to quell your protests. 

To appease you, she agrees to come downstairs with you so you don’t have to go to bed hungry. You’ve done it before, but you can tell if you do it tonight, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night with low blood sugar. It shouldn’t surprise you, but somehow does, that your dad again makes a comment about your greediness followed up with a scolding for forgetting to throw away one of your test strips.

 

…  
You suppose it makes sense that Señora groups you, Anya, and Clarke together. After all, the three of you sit in the same row. Still, it catches you off guard. You’re pretty certain Anya still hates Clarke after what she’d done to you in middle school. When Anya scowls and pulls her hair up, exposing her prominent cheekbones, there is no doubt. Anya is gorgeous, but when she’s angry, she looks scary. It appears that your role in this group will be trying to prevent Anya from going to war with Clarke. You understand Anya’s dislike, but she doesn’t know that you and Clarke have been talking more. At least, you don’t think she does because you haven’t told her, and that would explain her continued refusal to do anything more than glare in Clarke’s general direction. You’re not sure why you’re hiding it. It’s not like you would lie if she asked directly, but you don’t know how to bring it up. Anya’s not comfortable talking about feelings, and you aren’t either. So now you’re in a weird state of abeyance where you don’t know what the protocol is for interacting with the two of them together. 

The assignment is to work together to translate a passage about the 1985 earthquake in Mexico City. It’s only third year Spanish, and you’re all fairly intelligent, so the process goes quickly. You’re starting to get nervous because the three of you still have twenty minutes left by the time you’re done, and you don’t know how it’s going to go. You don’t know how to play the peacemaker, but that seems to be your role here. 

But it’s Clarke who saves the day. She turns to Anya and says, “I apologized to Lexa a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t get to talk to you. I just want to say I’m sorry for what I did to Lexa. It sucked, and I’m really sorry and glad you were there to take my place when I was being an idiot.”

Anya fixes Clarke with a deadly stare, and you start to get nervous again because it feels like this is never going to end. You’re not sure what will happen if Anya’s clenched fists ends up making an imprint on Clarke’s face. Nothing good, you assume. But then Anya blinks and gives Clarke the tiniest of nods. 

“Do anything to hurt her ever again, and I’ll end you,” Anya growls. At this point, you think she’s trying to save face since she’d given so much ground to Clarke. 

But it’s a tentative truce, and that seems to be good enough. It’s enough to start a conversation, at any rate. It feels a bit tense, but Clarke asks about your cross-country season, and Anya takes the opportunity to brag about how well you’re doing. Without fail, you can feel your face flaming. You hate being the center of attention. With everything your dad has said about how you’re narcissistic and think you’re the center of the world, you always try really hard to be invisible. This task is made especially difficult when someone, like Anya, insists on telling people how great you are. Apart from that, you’re wary of compliments—they often get revoked when you’re least suspecting it. And you have a hard time believing it’s true. Clarke reaches under your desk and squeezes your hand. You jump a little, but that’s nothing compared to the giant leap your insides take at her touch. 

You hear a hushed laugh from Anya’s direction, and you ask, “What?”

It’s a good thing Clarke and Anya are at least somewhat on neutral terms because based on the smirk Anya gives you as she says, “Nothing, nothing,” there’s no hiding it from her anymore. 

 

…  
Oddly, the nights when your dad is nice to you make things harder. Sometimes he’ll come home in a good mood and will laugh and joke with you. Tonight’s one of those nights. He offers to show you how to change your tire and jump a battery—your parents’ requirement in order for you to get your license. Right now you just have your permit. Having your license will be nice. You don’t have any disillusions about acquiring freedom and getting to go anywhere you want. That’s hardly realistic. You’ll use your license to drive you and Aden to school and to various practices. It’ll be easier on your parents, and most importantly, you won’t get stuck in a car by yourself with your dad.

But today, everything is nice. He cheerfully demonstrates how to take off the hubcap and how to use the tire iron to loosen lug nuts on the tire. He even laughs when you get excited about using the hydraulic jack. It turns out changing a tire is easy and so is jumping a battery. “I thought it would be harder than this,” you tell him. “People make it seem so hard and mysterious.”

Your dad is really tall, so when he straightens up, he towers over you. It’s intimidating most of the time, all of the time, really. So it surprises you when he looks down at you and says, “Nothing is mysterious once you know how it works. That’s why it’s so important to learn these basics. They’ll help you with more complicated things later on.”

“That makes sense,” you say. It does. You just don’t really know what to do because this is the first time in maybe six months that he’s really talked to you. Talked to you without putting you down or trying to mess with your mind. 

“I’ll teach you how to change your oil next. In some ways it’s more of a hassle than it’s worth, but it does save some money, and it’s good to know how to do.”

“Thanks,” you murmur. It’s foolish to hope, you know. But days like this make you give into the temptation. You know you’ll be crushed, maybe even later tonight, but for now, your heart is light and you hope. 

 

…  
The day after parent-teacher conferences is always a nightmare. Today is no exception. Your carefully honed invisibility powers come in handy. Of course you’re not really invisible, but you’ve found if you sink in on yourself and go hollow behind your eyes, people tend to forget you’re there. It works exceptionally well until Spanish class because Señora has no boundaries and apparently pays too much attention to you.

“Alicia, I was so pleased to meet your parents! Your mother is so nice, and your father is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He had me in stitches the whole time! He spent the whole time bragging about you. Of course I told them that you’re a delight to have in class. That didn’t seem to surprise them.” She says all of this without taking her eyes off you. She’s smiling, so you know it’s harmless, but it frightens you nonetheless. You hate having people stare at you because feel like they’re waiting for you to flinch—just like your dad does while casting insults at you. But you betray nothing; you offer no smile in return or, indeed, any reaction at all. Since you refuse to bite whatever trap she’s setting for you (logically you realize there’s no trap, but you feel there is), her smile falters. It’s Clarke, surprisingly, who comes to your rescue: she walks into class.

For the first time you notice that Clarke’s walk has changed dramatically from last school year. In the past, she always traveled at the center of a crowd of her friends. She attracted people to her, lighting up any room she entered. Now she moves alone or with one or two close friends; she keeps her eyes down and holds her books to her chest as if shielding herself. 

“Clarke!” Señora exclaims. 

Clarke jumps, startled at the greeting, but she manages a friendly, “Hi, Señora!”

“I was talking about parent-teacher conferences. Last night, if you remember? I told Lexa her parents were lovely. And I wanted you to know your dad was wonderful as well.” Señora is almost hopping up and down with happiness. 

What surprises you is that Clarke goes white and collapses into her chair. “My dad?” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

“Yes! I was so pleased he came. He asked for a late appointment. I was uncertain about staying later, but I’m glad I did. He was truly a delight!” Señora seems to be oblivious to Clarke’s discomfort, but at least the students that are filtering in serve as a distraction.

You don’t want to draw more attention to Clarke, so you write: “What’s wrong?” in your notebook, rip out the page, and discretely reach behind you to slip it onto Clarke’s desk. Thankfully Anya slouches into her chair seconds after you complete your task and not before because she would no doubt insist on knowing what was going on.

Class starts, but you can’t pay attention because Clarke hasn’t responded. Adrenaline is still in your bloodstream at the whole situation—Señora’s attention on you as well as Clarke’s reaction. You also don’t look behind you, as much as you want to. Perhaps she needs privacy. About halfway through class, you see the piece of paper dangling over your shoulder. As discretely as possible, you take it from Clarke.

It’s hard to read. Clarke’s left handed and a sloppy writer, which makes her handwriting difficult to decipher at the best of times. Right now it looks like her hand was shaking and like she didn’t know what to say because there are a lot of words crossed out. As far as you can tell, it says: “I haven’t heard from my dad since he left this summer. I thought he didn’t want to be part of my life anymore.”

You don’t know what to do. This is a difficult situation to handle via note passing in class. In the end, you don’t respond. What could you say? That sucks? I’m sorry? Your father loves you? Nothing seems appropriate. But after class, you turn around and ask, “Are you okay?”

She offers you a sad smile and a shrug. “I guess.”

It’s the end of the day, so you turn around and say, “Let me know if you need anything tonight. I’m free as soon as practice is over.” You’ve never been so thankful it’s a light day, so you’ll be home by five-thirty. 

You walk out of the classroom with Anya who looks at you quizzically. “What was that about?”

There’s no way you can answer without betraying Clarke’s confidence, so you lie to Anya. “Nothing.” 

“Mmhmm,” she says. She gives you her patented stern-mom-Anya stare. It’s the only stare you don’t mind, actually. “I know you’re lying, but I’ll respect your space. Just be careful with her. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“She’s different now.” You can’t help but defend Clarke. It’s not that Anya’s concerns are unfounded. On some level you know she’s right. Clarke’s betrayed you once. Who is to say she won’t do it again? But… “She’s broken,” you confide. “Not irreparably, but…just…” You trail off.

“She’s like you,” Anya murmurs. You know she’s looking at you, know she can see your cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame, but you can’t bring yourself to even glance in her direction. “I know there’s lots of things you don’t tell me, Lex. I know I’m not—I’m not the best at this stuff. If you can help each other, that’s good. Just be careful.”

You appreciate Anya so much. Sometimes you forget she’s incredibly self-aware. You hadn’t realized she knew that she didn’t always respond well when you told her things. That was something you’d have to think more about. 

 

…  
You truly don’t expect to hear from Clarke. But as you’re sitting on the couch waiting for dinner to be ready, you hear your phone buzz on the kitchen table. Your dad’s not home yet, so you and Aden felt safe enough to hang out downstairs with your mom. It’s hard, but you somehow manage to wait for a commercial before you move to your phone. It’s a struggle, but you don’t even sprint the few steps from the couch the the kitchen. You think you look casual, but when your mom says, “Got a hot date?” you realize that a career in acting will not ever be in your future.

“No,” you say with disdain and an eye roll, but you’re too focused on your phone to really put your heart into it. Any attention you were paying to your mom falls away because the text is from Clarke.

[Clarke]: can you come over? You can eat here if you didn’t already.

Suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest. You don’t even really know why. It’s just Clarke. But, of course, that’s flawed logic because it’s all about Clarke. Still, as much as you don’t want to explore your recent physiological reactions to this girl, you did make a promise. “Mom,” you begin. “Can I go over to Clarke’s?”

“Clarke Griffin?” she asks immediately, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were friends with her again.”

You shrug. “All that stuff happened a long time ago. We’re in the same Spanish class, so we’ve started talking. She’s nicer now.”

“Hmm,” your mom hums suspiciously. “You can go, but I want you to be careful with her, okay?”

“Okay,” you respond dutifully. 

“Do you need a ride?”

You think about it, but there’s really no need. It’s only a mile and still relatively light outside, and you live on a country road. “No. I’ll call if I need a ride home, but I think Clarke can drive me. She said she’d feed me, so I’ll just eat there. Okay?”

“Sure. Don’t be home too late.”

You nod, text Clarke, grab your Mentos in case your blood sugar drops on your walk, and head out the door. As much as you hate how small and hard to escape your area is, you really love living in the country. There’s nothing like taking an evening walk in the crisp fall air that’s unpolluted by car exhaust and noise. There’s some noise of course, but it’s mostly birds and small animals in the woods that line one side of the road. A couple of times you have to jump into the grass as cars speed by too fast, but for the most part, it’s an uneventful walk. 

Your driveway is a tenth of a mile long, which you always thought was crazy, but Clarke’s is the same length and super steep. It was fun to ride your bikes down when you were kids, but you can’t image how terrible it must be to clear when it snows. It’s hard to casually walk down, so you kind of jog a bit until it gets flatter. 

When you reach the house, you hesitate. As much as you’ve always loved Clarke’s house, rustic with its wooden frame and situated on five acres with lots of woods and a creek, it’s weird because it doesn’t really have a front door. There’s a door on the basement level. That’s where you always used to go in. But maybe you should climb the stairs to the porch and knock on the main level? If dinner is part of the plan, maybe you should go where the kitchen is? In the end you opt for the basement. You’re feeling a little out of sorts, so familiar sounds safer.

Clarke answers moments after you ring the doorbell, so you know she must have been watching TV or doing homework in the den. Walking through the door is like time travelling back to both happy and unhappy times. It’s where you laughed a lot, played games, and talked about the future, but it was also where you found out Lincoln’s parents were getting divorced, where Clarke lied to you, and eventually where she started ignoring you. Today is new because Clarke greats you with a weak smile and ushers you inside—she never used to seem uncertain, but today she does. 

After a few beats of awkward silence, she speaks. “How does eating massive amounts of pizza sound?”

“Um,” that brings you up short. The two of you used to eat pizza together all the time, but that was before you were diagnosed. You’re not sure how much to tell her, but you opt for the truth because it’s the only way you can think to gracefully decline. “Can we get salad too? I can eat a slice or two of pizza, but it has a lot of carbs. It makes my blood sugar spike, and it takes a long time to go back down.”

Clarke looks mortified. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that. I haven’t talked to you since—well, you know. We can totally get a salad or we can order something else. Well, no, actually we can’t because no one else delivers, and I’m not really supposed to drive tonight. Except to take you home. I can do that. I’m—”

“Stop!” you cut her off with a laugh. “It’s okay. I have diabetes now, yes, but it’s not that big of a deal. We can get a pizza from Antonio’s and one of their chef’s salads, and I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” She looks like she doesn’t believe you. You don’t know why, but it hits you in that moment for the first time just how beautiful Clarke is. Her brow is creased with worry and her blue eyes bright with concern, and you have to look away because it’s suddenly hard to breathe. You aren’t sure why, but you resolve not to think about it. A nod is enough to convince her, and you let out a sigh of relief when she goes to call the pizza place. 

You’re comfortable enough here to gently lower yourself onto the couch so you’re not hovering awkwardly in entranceway. But you’re not so comfortable that you turn on the TV or even look around. Part of you is curious, but your dad has done a thorough job of intimidating the curiosity out of you. So you sit and examine from afar the framed drawing Clarke did of the two of you back when you were in fifth grade. It’s a pencil drawing and very much done by a little girl, but you’re still astonished. It’s partially at how good it as and how you’d forgotten Clarke was such a good artist, but it’s also that her parents left it hanging in the den for everyone to see. You’re still looking at it when Clarke comes back, but she doesn’t notice. 

Instead she tosses you the remote and throws herself beside you on the couch. “Here. Pick something to watch.”

You notice the TV is on and Netflix is pulled up. “Like what?” you ask.

“Whatever you want.”

Now all of the awkwardness and discomfort that had slowly drained out of you is back. You’re really bad with “want.” What does it mean to want something? Is it something you’re supposed to feel? Because you don’t. Mostly you just go along with what other people say unless it seems like a rationally bad idea. You think you used to want things, but not for a long time now. It’s not prudent in your house where if you hint at wanting something, your dad will take it away from you. 

“Just pick something, jeez!” Clarke says with an eye roll. 

The reprimand cuts you to your innermost being. You thought Clarke understood, but apparently not. So you just put on the first episode of Gilmore Girls since that’s the show you normally watch in the evenings.

“You know, I don’t know what’s wrong with you when you don’t talk.” You flush, but you force yourself to look at Clarke who’s gazing back at you with genuine concern. “I mean it. You used to talk all the time, but now you’re so quiet. Like now, I can see I just hurt you, but I don’t know why. Do you want to tell me?”

It’s a struggle, like you’re fighting your way to the surface from the bottom of the ocean, but you try to explain your concerns about “wants.” “Wanting things is…dangerous. People can—they might try to…um…take away the things I want if I show it.”

“If you show you want something?” Clarke clarifies. You can’t really believe she’s asking you about this and trying to understand.

“Yes.”

“That’s really sad, Lex. You should feel safe enough to want things when your dad’s not around.”

You nod, silently. You tried, but it seems Clarke still doesn’t understand.

“But it’s not that simple, is it?” she says softly. 

Your heart fills with adoration before you can stop it. This is not being careful with the girl who hurt you so badly, but you can’t help it because she’s trying so hard. You hesitate, but shake your head. “I have to be consistent. Or I’ll make a mistake and want something in front of my dad.” Clarke’s face is filled with an immeasurable sadness, and you just can’t cope with it anymore. “Can we please talk about something else? Please?”

Clarke holds up her hands in admission of defeat. “Sure, sure. I’ll back off. Can we talk about my dad instead? I’ve been dying to talk to someone all day. It was so bad if my mom was home, I’d probably have slipped up and asked her about it. And she and I aren’t even really talking because she’s the one who told his secret to everyone, so it wouldn’t ruin her campaign.”

That doesn’t sound quite right. “Hang on. Wouldn’t it be more likely to ruin her campaign if people found out her husband was leaving her for another man?”

Clarke shrugs. “You would think, but she used it to her advantage. She spun it as maintaining honesty and openness in government. It was better than it being leaked, I guess. I don’t know. It worked well enough because she took a hit in the polls, but she still won. It ruined my dad, though. His engineering firm fired him. I don’t even know where he is now.”

Wow. That was lot of things at once. You’re not sure where to start. But you have to say something because Clarke is looking at you, waiting for you to offer some words of wisdom or an observation or anything, probably. “Um—” way to go, strong start. “That sounds really hard.”

Clarke shrugs and heaves a sigh, but seems to relax. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The two of you lapse into silence and watch a sixteen-year-old Rory get hit on by two men who are passing through Stars Hollow. “God, she’s hot,” Clarke mutters. 

And WOW. If there were a list of things you thought Clarke would NEVER say, that would be somewhere near the top. It’s not that you disagree, but you’re afraid to respond because what if this is a trap? What if she’s trying to trick you into saying something gay, so she can start spreading rumors again?

Once more, your thoughts must be written across your face because Clarke kind of laughs awkwardly. “You know, after what I did to you, I sometimes think I deserve everything that happened. I don’t know if I were you if I could be sitting here right now.”

“I hated you for a long time,” you admit. “You made middle school so much worse. But it’s been five years.”

“But you still don’t really trust me,” she finishes, sadly. You nod and she says, “That’s fine. I’m not going to betray you again, just so you know. I really am sorry about that. I do think Rory is hot. Also Lorelai. No tricks.”

And then, with a shaky breath, you admit aloud for the first time, “Me too.”

Thankfully the pizza comes then, so you don’t have to talk about this anymore. At first it bothered you when friends asked about your insulin pump, but now you like it. You don’t feel like you have to hide it when they’re open about it. So it makes you happy when Clarke asks about how much insulin you have to give yourself for different foods. And it really makes you laugh when she says, “So, do you get a new pump whenever you run out of insulin?” 

“No,” you say once you calm down. You’d very nearly either choked or spat out your pizza, and that would have been too embarrassing for you to countenance. “It’s $6000! I mean, insurance paid for it, but they’re not going to replace it every few days! I put more insulin in it whenever I get low!” 

“Oh my God. $6000?! That’s insane! My-my dad’s mom had diabetes, and she just stopped eating carbs. Can’t you do that?”

It was a smooth recovery, but you still catch the stammer when she mentions her dad. You let it go without comment. Her question is one you get a lot, so you have to try hard not to roll your eyes. “I’m guessing your grandma had Type 2 diabetes. I have Type 1, so that won’t work for me.”

“Hmmm…” Clarke says thoughtfully. “This is really interesting.”

You shrug awkwardly. “I’m glad?” You’re ready for a change of topic now. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yep.”

“Why haven’t you called your dad?” It’s something that’s been plaguing you all day. It doesn’t make any sense. 

Clarke had her pizza halfway to her mouth, but she puts it down so she can answer. “I didn’t know he wanted me to. I’ve thought about it, but every time I pick up my phone to call him, I realize my mom will see his number on the bill. That’s not a conversation I want to have. She thinks I’m on her side in this.”

“Whose side are you on?” You really shouldn’t be this curious, but you just can’t help it. You want Clarke and Jake to be on speaking terms. 

Clarke drops her head into her hands, her long hair—straightened today—spilling around her face. “I don’t know,” she groans. “This is such a shitty situation.”

That’s…fair. You can’t really deny that fact. “Maybe that was a bad question,” you admit. “I guess…” you pause to think. “I guess I’m asking how you feel about your dad...”

“Shacking up with another man?” Clarke finishes dryly. She holds your gaze, and even though your face turns red and you want to look away, you can’t bring yourself to do it. “I’m bisexual,” she says bluntly. “Which makes our—yours and my—whole situation even more ironic. I called you gay, and it turns out I’m into girls too. So I don’t care that my dad’s gay or bi or pan or I don’t even know. It kind of sucks that he fell in love with a man when he was married to my mom, but I get it.”

You feel like you’ve been hit with a stun gun. Gobsmacked might be an appropriate term. A part of you is still stuck on the fact that Clarke is bi. But the rest of you that’s still functioning is busy trying to find a solution. It’s not a fully formed thought, but you say, “Use mine,” as you thrust your phone in Clarke’s direction. Hopefully it distracts her, so you can process everything that just happened.

She takes it automatically. “Um, for what?” She turns it over in her hand, examining your Android.

“Call your dad. Your mom won’t find out if you call from my phone.” She’s still staring at you, dumfounded. “He obviously wants to be a part of your life. He probably thinks you hate him, which is why he hasn’t called. You should call him.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “Thanks.”

And she dials the number she knows by heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. I don't have any words that other people haven't already said. Please feel free to come talk to me on tumblr (balagantamim) if you need someone to talk to. And, I guess, I do have one thing. This is not for white/cis/straight people. To the rest of you, lots of people are talking about protecting one another. That's really great. But let me be a downer for a second. I grew up with an abusive dad kinda like Lexa's in this fic. When you grow up with an abusive parent, you try to look out for your siblings, knowing your parent will turn on you instead. But there are times when you just can't. And you hate yourself for it. This horrible, awful situation is the same. Stand up for people. Absolutely. But know there will be times when you don't because you just can't. Try not to hate yourself too much on those days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> picks up right where the previous chapter left off.

Your phone is turned up loudly enough that you can more or less hear both sides of the conversation. It takes five rings, five rings where Clarke taps her fingers nervously against your knee, until you hear a tentative, “Hello?”  
“Dad?” Clarke says. You can hear tears in her voice, and you know it won’t be long until they spill from her eyes. It’s especially telling the way her fingers stop tapping and dig into your knee instead. 

It’s unsettling, but you finish your piece of pizza anyway. You’d taken the insulin, so awkward and socially inappropriate or not, you have to eat. 

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. “Clarke. I didn’t know—I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. Are you—how are you? Do you mind if I ask?”

Now Clarke truly begins to cry in earnest. “I’m fine. I miss you. I just—you came to my parent-teacher conference, but you didn’t come to see me. I haven’t seen you since you left. Do you-do you not want to be part of my life anymore?”

“Oh no. No, honey. It’s killed me to stay away. And, well, obviously I’m not very good at it. I miss you so much, but you didn’t call, so I thought you were mad at me or didn’t want to talk to me again. I love you so much.” 

It’s weird for you to be here during this conversation. You don’t know what your role is, especially now that you finished your pizza. You could start in on the salad, but that would be too noisy. And you really don’t know what to do about Clarke’s hand on your knee. You don’t know what to do about her tears. You don’t know how to handle this. You can’t ever imagine having this conversation with your dad. It hurts and it’s too much, but you can’t leave because Clarke needs you here. So you muster all of your courage and place your trembling hand over hers. And you hate the way it feels. You hate that it makes you feel. You’ve spent so long not feeling anything, and this moment is making you fall apart. But God, you feel alive for the first time in as long as you can remember. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel more than numbness, a deep emptiness that is an oxymoronic agony. In another life, you might describe this feeling as “happy.” In this life, this feeling is akin to the tingling of an awakening arm that fell asleep. There’s panic too because what if you can’t contain this whole feeling thing? What if you start feeling again all the time? You wouldn’t survive it. Without a doubt you know you wouldn’t survive it.

Clarke must realize something is wrong, that you’ve tuned out, because even though this is an emotional conversation for her, she turns her hand over to intertwine her fingers with yours. And you still don’t know what to do, but somehow this is enough for now, and you can finally listen again.

“Can I come see you?” Clarke asks. She tries to keep from sounding hopeful, but you think you’ve never heard or seen someone fail so badly at something before because hopefulness oozes out of her. 

There’s a hesitation, a pause. “There’s nothing I would like more, but—”

“It’s okay. I understand.” Clarke’s tongue trips over itself in her haste to hide her pain. But her voice tells you and Jake otherwise. And you can’t blame her. Of course she doesn’t understand why her dad doesn’t want to see her. You squeeze her fingers in support because you don’t know how else to help.

“No, no, no. Honey. I love you more than anything. I’d like nothing more than to see you everyday, just like it was before. But I’m a-afraid for you. I know—I know what this town is like. I know how you’ll be treated if kids at school find out you’re talking to me.” Now you can hear him crying.

Clarke takes a deep breath then, a shaky breath. “I’m bisexual, dad. It’s going to be bad no matter what. After what I did to Lexa in middle school, I can’t keep quiet about who I am. It’s my penance.” You hadn’t realized Clarke’s family didn’t know about her sexuality. That probably meant no one knew. For some reason, you were the first person she told.

Jake takes a few moments to respond. “Oh Clarke.” He finally sighs. “I love you, honey. I’m proud of you for telling me, but this is a bad idea. Can you put Lexa on?” you hear. 

You hadn’t realized he knew you were there. You must have missed that part of the conversation. But you take your phone back, its weight familiar in your hand. “Hello?”

“I know my daughter hurt you. I know her words hurt you because they hurt me, too. And I know she doesn’t deserve this, but please. Please. Don’t let her do this. Keep her safe. Please.” You’ve never heard him sound so desperate.

“I’ll…” You don’t really know what to say. “I’ll try,” you promise. “I don’t want her to get hurt either.”

He sighs with relief. “Thank you. I love you, kid. You were always so good for Clarke.”

“Thanks,” you respond automatically. You don’t know what to say to that either. You don’t know if he’s genuine or trying to leverage your feelings so you protect his daughter. 

A choked laugh follows the brief awkwardness. “I mean it, Lexa. You’re a good kid even if you can’t stop my daughter from going through with this plan of hers. Can you put Clarke back on?” Numbly, you hand over the phone; you’re not sure what just happened. “Clarke, how about we spend Sunday afternoon together? We can meet at the China Buffet in the city around one. Bring Lexa if you want.”

“Thank you!” Clarke exclaims, almost sobbing in relief. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too, kid. I’ll see you on Sunday. Love you.”

“Me too. So much.” Clarke hangs up then and stares stupidly down at your phone like she can’t believe what just happened. She looks at you with tears still streaming down her cheeks. “He still loves me,” she says in disbelief.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. 

The two of you sit side-by-side on the couch. You’re careful not to touch her apart from your linked hands. It might sound stupid because you’re freaking holding hands, but you don’t know what else to do. This is a new area for you. You don’t touch people, especially not like this. Clarke seems content for a while, but then she rests her head on your shoulder, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. It can’t be healthy for your heart to be beating this fast. What does this mean? Why is Clarke doing this? 

“You can push me off of you, you know,” Clarke says.

“It’s okay,” you tell her. You try to relax so your tension is less obvious. 

Maybe it works because Clarke doesn’t say anything about it again. She does give you an adoring look when you start eating your salad, but hey. You still need to eat some more, and you’re still hungry. It’s awkward with one hand, but doable. Even if she thinks you’re weird.

It’s not much longer until she drives you home. Once you let go of each other, you don’t mention it again. Does she…why did she do this? You don’t know, and there’s no one you can ask. You’d taken Jake’s warning to heart, but it wasn’t anything you didn’t already know. There are no gay kids at your school, and there is a reason for it. You’d lived through that very reason courtesy of Clarke, and you know the treatment you’d gotten was very minor compared to what it would be now.

It’s hard for you to sleep that night because you don’t know what any of this means.

 

…  
The next morning, you come out of your room to find Aden dressed in more or less the same outfit as you: jeans, sneakers, and a black Polis cross-country sweatshirt. It’s not the first time, and you doubt it’ll be the last, but it’s always good for morning drama. “Go change,” you tell him with the authority of an older sister.

Unfortunately, you have no authority with him. He raises an eyebrow, looks at you like he’s never heard you say anything so absurd. But of course he has because you have this same conversation at least once a week. “You go change,” he says. “I was dressed first.”

“But I had my outfit picked out last night.” You think that you’d both be tired of this, but following the script is comforting. 

He just shrugs and starts to walk away, and you’re annoyed so you try to pull him back and throw him into his room. You’re not above violence when you’re grumpy in the mornings. But your baby brother is bigger than you are, so he manages to twist out of your grasp. The way he bats away your arms actually hurts. Maybe this altercation wasn’t worth it, though you do get in a couple of good punches, so you feel a little vindicated.

Like usual, you just decide to go to school matching. Most likely no one will notice. You’re close in age, but he’s pale with short, straight blonde hair. Your hair is long, curly, and brown, and you’ve got a tan complexion. You’ll avoid the twin comments. Probably. At the very least, this happens about once a week, so people are used to it.

“Whatever,” you mutter. Aden laughs, which makes you smile even through your crabbiness.

Despite the two classes you have with Clarke, you manage to avoid talking to her at all that day. It takes a lot of ducking and averting your eyes and dodging Anya’s questions, but you succeed. A sleepless night didn’t give you the clarity you needed in order to figure things out with Clarke.

 

…  
You’re exhausted when you’re done with cross-country practice. Aden is in the upper parking lot practicing with the marching band, so it’s just you and your dad until you get home. Before you can get in the car, your dad asks, “Did you do your steps?”

“My what?” you ask. You’re tired, and it’s hard to think. Your dad frequently calls things by made up names, which is annoying and embarrassing, though hardly the worst of his sins. But tonight you don’t want to try to figure it out.

“Your. Steps.” He annunciates the words very clearly like you hadn’t heard him. When that doesn’t work, he rolls his eyes at you. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re stupid or that you’re being obstinate. Maybe it’s both because he’s definitely annoyed at you. “Your ladder. Did you do the ladder?”

Oh. Your agility ladder. “No. I ran eight miles today. I figured that was enough.” You’re on the verge of displaying attitude. And your dad knows it. That means he’s going to push.

“If you want to play soccer at a D1 school, you need to be practicing every day. We’re not leaving until you do your steps.”

That’s…disheartening, but not all that surprising. So you pull your agility ladder out of your bag and run back down the hill to the fields. Make no mistake, you grumble the whole way because this is crap. You’re not even sure what’s going to happen next week, let alone for college. The distant future is something you can’t afford to dwell on, but you do try to mitigate the damage for the immediate future. You spend about fifteen minutes slaloming, iggy shuffling, and hopping. It’s not your best work—after all, you ran eight miles already today without sleeping much last night. But you can feel him watching you, so you don’t slack off.

It’s not enough, you know, but you’re so tired. Your legs are dead, and you just want to die. But when you get in the car and he starts in on you, you’re still prepared for it. Even mentally steeling yourself doesn’t stop that night from being one of the worst you can remember. Sometimes your dad does this thing where he watches you. He watches you for hours while he hurls insults at you and waits for you to react. You’ve gotten really good at not betraying any emotion because you’ve taught yourself not to feel anything. It’s not so hard once you get the hang of it; you just call yourself stupid or an idiot to shame yourself anytime you feel something. In the future, that will probably become an issue, you realize, but for now it’s how you survive. Plus, you’re not anticipating living past high school. But sometimes you react because sometimes it’s so bad you can’t help it. 

Tonight he starts off with cross-country, moves on to school, soccer, your friends—the usual stuff he assaults you with. You know that your only worth to him is in the things you do, not who you are. You’re used to it, and there’s some comfort in it. So that’s why it feels like a sucker punch to the stomach when he says, “God doesn’t love you.”

Logically you realize that doesn’t make sense; God loves everyone. You know this. You’ve heard it said over and over again at church and youth group. And yet…what if he’s right? Because you can’t feel God’s love—you never have. That feeling of unconditional love, that connection that people talk about is utterly foreign to you. What if your dad is right and you’re unlovable to God? With how awful and empty you feel all the time, maybe it makes sense that God doesn’t love you. Besides, you’re not completely naïve. Your reactions around Clarke have become rather obvious. You’re starting to doubt that you’re straight, and God doesn’t love gay people, right? 

Aden, who’d gotten home not long before, must see something in your expression because he steps into the cross-fire. He successfully distracts your dad and gets called a fairy for his trouble. It must be hard to be a boy who is so soft and gentle, especially when your dad exploits that fact whenever he has the opportunity. Thankfully your mom comes back downstairs then, so you and your brother can safely escape upstairs. Aden looks pale, which means that your dad’s insult must have really affected him. Before he goes into his room, he grabs your arm to stop you. For a full thirty seconds you both stand there. You’re patient because you know he’s struggling with something. Finally, he musters the courage to whisper, “I think I maybe like boys.” You hate the shame you see in his eyes. You hate how his chin trembles as he tries and fails to hold back a tear. 

He trusted you with his secret, so you can trust him with yours. You pull him into a hug and say, “I think I like girls.” There’s more relief than you expected at this admission; you feel a bit lighter, a bit freer. You don’t know why. This doesn’t change anything in substance. Your dad is still a terrible person. And you still don’t know if God loves you or if the entire school will reject you or what role Clarke plays in all this. But you still feel free.

Aden’s blinding grin soothes your soul. You love your brother so much. But then he wipes his nose on your shirt, and you kind of want to kill him. 

 

…  
Later that week, you’re sitting in Spanish class when Clarke decides she’s done with your silence. Señora must agree, or so it seems, because she pairs you up with Clarke and Anya again. As much as you try, you can’t ignore Clarke in a group of three. Anya’s never been one to push, she’s good at respecting your space, but Clarke is THE one to push.

When you only minimally engage with her, she gets angry. “That’s it! I swear I will follow you around until you start talking to me. I’m pretty sure you’re not mad at me since we were on okay terms the other day. So what’s going on? I’m not above pounding on your bedroom door all night until you talk to me.”

Anya snorts. Of course she would like this. She’s probably taking notes on ways to pester you in the future. You look Clarke in the eye and say, “I don’t have a bedroom door.”

That shuts down the conversation more quickly than you were expecting. Now you kind of wish you’d thought about that before you said it because they’re looking at you with varying amounts of astonishment and pity. You don’t want either. Anya and Clarke kind of glance at each other before looking back at you. You’ve gone back to your translation, so you’re not really paying attention anymore. Or, you’re trying not to pay attention to them. It ends up being more like you’re only paying attention to them and pretending to do your work. 

Anya must have lost their eye conversation battle because you hear her sigh. “Lex,” she says gently. “Why don’t you have a bedroom door?”

You shrug and try for nonchalance. “My parents took it off over the summer to paint it, and my dad keeps refusing to put it back up.” You want to say more. You want to say that it erodes your sense of security and is just another example of how you have no control over your life. You want to say that your dad knows this and did it intentionally. But you don’t because you don’t know how. 

“That sucks!” Anya spits out. You can hear the anger in her voice. “I can’t believe your dad would do that. It’s not like you’re causing trouble because you’re like the perfect teenager. You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t do drugs, you don’t stay out late, you listen to your parents. Hell, you don’t even curse! I could understand taking away your door if you were bad or something, but this is just bullshit.” Anya’s fuming. You’ve rarely seen her so angry, and you’re kind of impressed she’s managed to keep her voice down so no one hears. 

“Thanks, An,” you say. It’s nice to hear her support, you suppose, but it’s a small comfort. It’s soothing, but it doesn’t really change anything. 

You feel Clarke’s hand settle softly on your forearm. It’s your right forearm. You’re not sure why that’s relevant, but it feels important right now for some reason. “Hey,” she says, and her tone makes you look up at her. The sad smile you see on her face, the same one you see on Anya’s when you peak at her, makes you want to cry. “My house is always open if you need somewhere safe to crash.”

“I’m okay.” You think your smile comes out more like a grimace. “This is my life. I’m used to it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to be,” Anya mutters, and Clarke nods her head in agreement. 

 

…  
You hate your dad. Sometimes you lie in bed at night and imagine different ways of killing him. Maybe that’s bad, but sometimes you firmly believe he deserves it. Besides, you’d never actually do it—then people would be right when they think you’re the crazy one.

Irrespective of the way your dad treats you, your relationship with your mom is also complicated. You love her—you do—and you know she loves you too. But she has her own demons that haunt her. You know your mom is anxious and depressed, so you do your best to make things easier for her. Like tonight. 

“What’s for dinner?” you ask as she drives you home. Aden’s at marching band practice again.

Your mom sighs, close to tears. “I can’t deal with that tonight.” 

That’s somewhat understandable, but it would have been nice to know in advance so you could have planned something. Your mom made sure from a young age that you knew how to cook. “So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, Lexa. You’re sixteen. You figure something out. I just can’t deal with this tonight.”

“Okay,” you say soothingly. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.” You don’t want to. You really, really don’t want to, largely because there’s no way there’s anything easy to make in the house, which means omelettes for dinner. But this is what you do: you take care of her.

It seems to be a day for small annoyances because when you get home, the internet isn’t working. You tell your mom, but she just tears up again, so you call the internet company. When you find out your mom forgot to pay the bill, you grab her credit card from her purse and take care of it. It’s not the first time, so you know to pretend to be her as you gamely recite the last four digits of her social security number that you memorized years ago. It’s not that your parents don’t have the money to pay the bills; sometimes your mom just forgets. You’ve complained about it in the past, but it mostly just upsets your mom, so you just try to mitigate the damage when it happens. 

Once that’s taken care of, you start making breakfast for dinner—western omelets. 

You take care of your mom. You take care of your brother. You always have. It’s your job to make your mom’s life a little easier. Apart from the way your dad treats you, taking care of everything at home makes it hard to relate to your friends because it means you never really got to be a kid. It’s one of the reasons why you get along so well with Anya. When Anya was little, her mother took her and fled first from Tibet and then from Nepal. You don’t know exactly what happened, but it was something to do with her father. Whatever it was was bad enough for her to look to the bottom of the liquor bottle each night for answers and comfort. Anya takes care of her mom like you do yours. You both had to grow up too soon, so you understand one another…at least on that level. 

Still, despite all of this, you can’t bring yourself to hate your mom the way you do your dad. She’s not actively trying to make your life miserable. In fact, she’s trying her best. You know she is. You just wish sometimes her best was a bit better. If she were a bit better, maybe she could leave your dad or remember to pay the bills or take care of you and Aden. 

 

…  
That Sunday you flat out lie to your parents. There’s no way you can tell them you’re going to talk to Clarke’s ‘disgraced, gay father.’ You’d heard that phrase tossed around by your dad in reference to Jake Griffin a few times, so you tell them you’re going to hang out at Clarke’s house. 

When Clarke picks you up, she looks extremely tense. You’re pretty sure that she’s not nervous because normally when she’s nervous she chatters mindlessly. You don’t know what to make of a silent Clarke that can’t even look at you. 

It’s a solid thirty miles to the city. But Clarke pulls into the gas station that’s only a few miles away from your house. A quick glance at the gas gauge tells you she doesn’t need gas. Of course, the fact that she pulled into a parking space around back of the store probably should have been your first clue. You’re about ninety percent sure she isn’t going to murder you, so you just wait patiently until she tells you what’s going on.

“I can’t go to see my dad unless I talk to you first,” she says finally. That doesn’t clear up much of anything, so you stay silent as you wait for more. “I don’t mean he told me I had to. I just—I have to. I have to tell you about why I treated you the way I did.” Now she looks at you. There’s shame in her expression, but you can also see pride lurking behind her eyes. It’s the kind of pride, you know, that drives her to have this conversation and not the kind that explains away sins. 

Apparently she’s waiting for you to say something, so you shrug and say, “Okay.” You’re not sure what she wants from you. When she doesn’t start talking again, you realize your “okay” doesn’t seem to be enough, so you say, “Why did you do it?” It’s rather emotionless, but you can’t work up to the anger and betrayal you felt half a decade ago when these wounds were fresh. But she still doesn’t say anything. So you give her a way out. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s really, really not. Just give me a second.” You gesture for her to take all the time she needs. Eventually she seems to muster the courage to start talking for real this time. “Okay, so you remember how we were on vacation back between fifth and sixth grade? My parents were in their room, and you, Aden, and I shared a room?” You nod. It was a fun vacation. “So you and I shared a bed, right?” You nod again. Apparently this is going to be a conversation in pieces. 

Clarke runs a hand through her hair and takes a deep breath. “God. Okay. So it was a disaster since neither of us are good at sleeping.” You have to smile at that because she’s so right. You distinctly remember a night when you’d accidentally pushed her out of the bed in your sleep. Her shriek woke you up. “Anyway, one night I woke up lying on top of you.” 

You have to swallow against the bile that arises with that repressed memory. You’d forced yourself to forget about it. Clarke is still talking, so at least you have something to distract you from your memories. “I swear it was an accident. I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen. But I was lying on top of you and I felt…”

She seems to be floundering for a word, so you quietly supply, “Awake.”

Clarke stares at you like you just said the most brilliant thing of all time. “Yeah. Awake. But not just like ‘Oh, I’m awake now.’ It was that, but it was also like I was waking up for the first time. I felt alive and excited and I guess there was a kind of swooping feeling low in my stomach. And it scared me. It was so fucking terrifying because I’d never felt that before. And I didn’t know what it was, but I knew…no, I thought it was wrong to feel it for another girl. Then you kind of gently rubbed my leg, and it was so perfect, and I just couldn’t cope. I told everyone you were gay because I was so, so afraid I was. I didn’t know if I could hide my feelings for you. Shifting the scrutiny onto you seemed like the best solution.”

“Um…” You don’t know what to say. You hadn’t thought about this in such a long time. You remember waking up with Clarke on top of you. You remember not being able to stop your hand from stroking the outside of her thigh and not pushing her off of you even though you had known you should have. Knowing Clarke’s motives actually clarifies things. Knowing she was at the very least attracted to you…well, that you don’t know how to respond to. “I—”

Clarke grabs your arm to cut you off. “Don’t say you understand. Tell me how it felt. I need to hear this, and I think you need to say it.”

You blink at her. For a moment you consider telling her that’s unnecessary, that it was a long time ago, but something stops you. “It was the last time I cried,” you admit aloud for the first time. No one had ever given you this opportunity before, and you’re going to take it, especially now that you’ve started, and it feels so good. Because Clarke is right. You do have a lot to say. 

“Everyone was so horrible to me in middle school because of you. They were always playing mind games with me to try to see if I was gay. I always had to be on guard, which was difficult because until then, school had always been my safe place where I didn’t have to worry about mind games. I was so mad at you because I didn’t do anything to you. All I did was be your friend. I felt very stupid because I still kept trying to be your friend even through this even though you obviously didn’t want it. Every night my mom and Aden would sit with me while I cried about how people treated me, how you treated me, but also because I missed you. Then one day I realized I just had to let you go. I haven’t cried since then because nothing could ever be that bad again.”

Clarke blinks at you and then says tentatively, “People bullying you?”

You don’t know why she isn’t understanding this. “No, Clarke. You betraying me.” It had shattered you in a way. Before then you knew adults were suspect, but this whole mess taught you that you couldn’t trust your friends either. Not really, anyway.

“Fuck, Lexa,” Clarke breathes. She looks stricken, and you hate the way you feel some amount of satisfaction. “I hate myself so much for what I did to you.” She’s blinking back tears, but you make no move to comfort her. “I hate that I made you feel inferior and that what I said hurt my dad too. I hate that I did that, and I know it’s just an excuse, but I did it because I hated myself. I hated myself, and I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” you can’t stop yourself from asking.

She takes a deep breath. “Afraid that if I told you how I felt, you would judge me, and that would have hurt me so much. So I hurt you first. It was stupid. No. It was cruel. And I’m sorry for that.” Clarke lets out a shaky breath. “Can you tell me why you forgave me? I never understood that.”

She’s back to staring a hole into her steering wheel, so it’s easy for you to answer. You shrug and respond, “I don’t deserve to be treated better.” It probably shouldn’t surprise you that it sounds worse aloud than it did in your head. So you try to backtrack. “I mean, my dad always tells me I don’t deserve to be treated better. People usually don’t treat me very well, so mostly I assume he’s right.” Somehow that clarification is worse.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting—you’re not really expecting anything—but Clarke dropping her head onto her steering wheel between her hands is not something you considered. “Shit, Lex,” she breathes. “That makes this so much worse. Your dad set up this horrible world where no one wants you, and I proved him right. I’m so sorry. I know it sounds like a line, but I swear it wasn’t your fault. You deserved so much better than how I treated you.”

“It’s okay,” you mutter. It wasn’t back then, but it is now. At least you think it is…or at least you hope it is. There’s not much room in your life for anger. But maybe there is a little room for it because you also say, “It’s okay, but I still don’t trust you.”

Clarke gives you a scrutinizing look. The only thing you can hear is air whistling through her nose. You’re not sure what she wants from you, but you stare back at her anyway. Eventually she nods. “That’s fair,” she admits. “I royally screwed that up. But I’m trying to fix it. I’m trusting you with my secrets, but I don’t expect you to tell me yours. That’s why I wanted you to come today. I want you to hear my dad’s side of the story with me.” She hesitates for a moment and then finishes quickly, “And I should probably also tell you that you’re the reason I know I’m bi. Or, I mean, the reason I thought I was gay, but then Finn happened and that worked okay, so...”

That’s something that makes you freeze. You can feel the blood rushing to your face and hear it roaring in your ears. What are you supposed to say to that? Nothing apparently suffices because Clarke is starting the car and reversing out of the spot. Neither of you says anything until she asks you to help navigate. She’s always been terrible with directions.

When you pull into the half full parking lot, you immediately spot Jake who makes his way over to you. As soon as Clarke steps out of her car, Jake engulfs her in a hug. As you stand awkwardly on the other side of the car, you think about that expression. Lots of times people just mean it in a bear-hug kind of way, but Jake is a large man. He presses his lips to Clarke’s head and throws his arms around her. The only part of her you can see is two comically small arms wrapped around Jake’s back. It makes you laugh aloud, which pulls the teary pair apart. 

Jake holds his arms out to you. “Come here, Lex. It’s been a long time. Let me look at you.”

You don’t know how to politely decline, so you place your hands in his and try not to squirm as his eyes search your face. You don’t like people looking at you—it hurts because it’s dangerous to be seen. But somehow his gaze just warms you down to your toes. “So?” you ask, a teasing smile spreading across your face. “Do I look the same?”

“No,” he answers more seriously than you are expecting, but he squeezes your hands to blunt the sharpness of his honesty. “You look older…harder, somehow, and definitely sadder. But you’re as beautiful as you’ve always been.” Before you have time to even fully recognize the burning in your eyes as impending tears both because you know why’re you’re sadder and because he called you beautiful, Jake pulls you into a hug. It’s more gentle than his embrace with Clarke, but just as loving. “I’m glad you came,” he says as he releases you.

You’re more caught off guard than you think you should be, mostly because you’d wanted to cling to him. It’s been so long since an adult has hugged you. Somehow you manage to stutter out a “Me too.”

Clarke is apparently tired of being left out because she grabs both you and Jake by the hand and starts dragging you toward the restaurant. “I was promised Chinese buffet, and I demand payment immediately.” She’s laughing, but the subtle tremor in her voice tells you she’s nervous, and you kind of can’t blame her. None of you know how this lunch is going to go.

The restaurant isn’t too busy because it’s the middle of the afternoon—between lunch and dinner time. The familiar smell of cheap Chinese food welcomes you in when you walk through the door. You’re seated right away and go to the buffet to get your food. You watch with mild disgust as Clarke and Jake load up their plates with crab legs. That’s always been their go-to food when it’s available. You detest all seafood. This is the first time you’ve had Chinese food since you were diagnosed, so you choose your food more methodically than you used to: sesame chicken even though it’s breaded, chicken and broccoli, veggies, and soup. You contemplate getting rice, but decide you’d rather have some chicken lo mein. For some reason the restaurant has diet root beer as an option, so you return to the table with a victorious grin. Normally your choices are Diet Coke or water. 

Jake watches with interest as you pull out your insulin pump. “How’s that going?” he asks in an offhand manner. 

“Fine,” you say with a shrug. “I like the pump much better than injecting myself every time I eat something.”

Jake nods thoughtfully. “My p-partner likes it better as well.” You catch the hitch in his voice, but you don’t mention it. “Some people don’t like the constant reminder that they’re diabetic, but Marcus has found it to be much more convenient.”

“Marcus?” Clarke asks, her head shooting up from the crab leg she is devouring. “Marcus Kane?” 

“Yes,” Jake sighs. He sets down his fork and runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose I owe you that story.”

Clarke wipes her mouth on the cloth napkin. “No,” she states definitively. “You don’t owe me your story. I’d like it if you told me, but you don’t have to.”

Jake considers her for a moment with a fond expression. “I want to tell you.” He glances at you as well. “I want to tell you both.” He took a deep breath and began. “First I want you to know that nothing happened between Marcus and me until after I left. I never—I never cheated on your mom.”

“What difference does that make?” Clarke asked. There’s just a hint of bitterness in her voice, so you know she harbors some resentment toward her father. 

“Maybe none,” Jake admits heavily. “But it makes me feel less guilty.” He offers a hand to Clarke who hesitates before slipping her hand into his. “You know your mom, Marcus, and I have been friends for years?” Clarke nods. “We started spending so much time together during the campaign, and I started to feel something. I wanted to spend all my time with him. I started talking about him all the time—even your mom noticed.”

“So did I,” Clarke interrupts. “I noticed too.”

Jake smiles at her. “I’m not surprised. You always were observant.” Clarke smiles at that. “I wasn’t going to act on my feelings; I wasn’t even planning on telling anyone. I truly wasn’t. But then Marcus slipped a letter into my jacket when he hugged me goodnight. Your—uh—your mom found it. Before I read it, actually. We read it together, which was—um—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “Anyway, in it he told me how much he loved me and wanted to be with me. Even then I wasn’t going to leave.”

You pause with your fork in midair. You weren’t expecting that. Jake catches your astonishment. “I really did love Abby,” he says directly to you. “I still do. It’s not the same as I feel about Marcus, but I wouldn’t have been unhappy staying with her. And I told her as much. I thought she believed me. But then the next afternoon I was called into my boss’ office and was told they were letting me go. That’s how I found out someone had outed me.” 

“Shit,” Clarke breathes. You understand that feeling. You hadn’t quite believed Clarke had had the whole story, but it seems she was right. “I can’t believe she did that!” she fumes. 

Jake shrugs and smiles sadly. “I couldn’t either. But I packed up my belongings at the office, called Marcus, and drove over to his apartment in the city. I was in shock. So was he. He was devastated over what his letter had done. But I told him it was okay—that I loved him as well. It was somehow the best and worst moment of my life. I was gaining the person I’d grown to love so, so much, but I was losing everything else. I’d lost my job. I was losing a lifelong friendship in your mom. But you, Clarke. I was afraid I was losing you forever, and that hurt the worst.” 

Clarke uses her free hand to wipe her eyes. “I was afraid of that, too.”

You give them a few moments to cry together. But then you have to know. “What have you been doing since then?”

“I got another engineering job in the city, one where they don’t care whom I love. Marcus and I are sharing his apartment. We even got a dog.” He laughs in disbelief at the direction his life has gone. “I love your mom, Clarke. I do. Everything just feels so much more…just more with Marcus. He’s—I…” Jake trails off at a loss for words.

“He’s your one true love,” Clarke finishes with a laugh. You can’t help but smile at her. This is such an endlessly complicated situation, a situation where no one will ever win completely, but Clarke has made it sound like it has a fairytale ending. 

Jake grins down at the table sheepishly. “Yeah.” 

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m really happy for you.” Clarke squeezes his hand. All you can do is offer a smile which doesn’t feel like much, but Jake returns it, so you suppose it’s enough.

“What about you, Clarke? How have you been doing?”

“I’ve…” Clarke sniffs and sneaks a peak in your direction as if trying to determine if you’ll correct her if she tries to lie. To be fair, you absolutely would. Jake is safe, and he deserves the truth. “It’s been hard,” she admits. “I’m doing okay in school. Octavia and Raven have been really supportive, but Wells…Wells isn’t really talking to me.” That’s a surprise. You hadn’t known that. 

Jake exhales, collapsing in on himself. “Oh, honey,” he breathes. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I know how long the two of you have been friends and how much he means to you.”

Clarke gulps a couple of times, fighting back tears. But she nods and keeps talking. “Thanks. It’s been better recently. Lexa stopped the first person who tried to be an asshole about everything.”

She smiles at you, but you can’t stop the churning in your stomach. You remember that incident with guilt rather than pride. Jake must notice your blank expression, but he still says, “Thank you for protecting my daughter, Lexa.” You manage a nod, somehow, and he thankfully turns back to Clarke. “Have you—have you thought more about what we talked about on the phone?” He’s obviously trying to hedge around the issue, but anxiety is clear in his voice.

“I thought about it,” Clarke says. “Do you know there are no out kids at our school? It’s like we don’t even exist except as a punchline or as an object for bullies.” She sounds defeated.

“I assumed as much,” Jake responds evenly. 

Clarke nods, mostly to herself. “Yeah. I never really paid attention to it before. Before I felt guilty spreading rumors about Lexa, but now I know how dangerous it was. I see kids get bullied for being gay almost every day. It hurts because logically, some of them have to be. No one makes fun of me, but they should. They should because I am. Or, I’m bi, anyway. It’s not fair.”

“No,” Jake says. “It’s not.” He’s still not giving Clarke any direction, and it’s making you nervous.

“It’s not fair,” you chime in because you can’t take it anymore. “But you can stand up for kids without telling people you’re bi. The reason no one is out is because it’s not safe. If they don’t literally kill you or beat you up everyday, they’ll wear you down until you don’t know who you are anymore. They’ll kill you that way or drive you to kill yourself.” You’re shaking with the force of these words, so much so that you have to clasp your hands together. But you’re not done yet. “There’s a difference between rumors floating around and actually coming out. They’ll target you for who you are, not who they think you are. It’s a big difference. It’s the most important difference.”

Clarke grabs your shaking hand. You can’t look at her, but you can feel the concern radiating off of her and confusion coming from Jake. “That’s what your dad is doing to you, isn’t it?”

Now you feel confused. Were you talking on two levels? You didn’t think you were, but now that you run back over the things you said—wearing you down until you’re no one, metaphorically killing you, wanting to die—maybe you were. You blink hard a couple of times because the room is fading away. Clarke’s hands help too, and the world comes back into focus. “Yes,” you admit softly.

“What’s this?” Jake asks, concern taking over. “What’s her dad doing to her?”

Clarke gives you the opportunity to respond, but you remain quiet, so she starts to tell your story. It’s an odd experience. It’s good in some ways—it takes the pressure off of you so you aren’t forced to speak. It’s also bad because she doesn’t know everything, maybe not even the worst of it. But she knows enough, and you can’t do this right now. You weren’t prepared for it. So you close your eyes and allow yourself to experience the lingering tingle left from the spicy chicken and to smell the odd mix of foods combined with Clarke’s perfume. 

“Lexa, is that right?” Jake’s voice draws you out of your reverie. 

You peak open an eye. “Um, yes. More or less.” 

“How long has this been going on?”

“I—” You break off because you’re not sure how to answer. If you think back to your childhood, your dad’s always expected too much from you—valued you for what you did instead of who you are. He’s always blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. But he’s gotten worse lately, more chaotic and unreasonable. You can’t answer because you don’t know what specifically Jake is asking about, so you just shrug. And then you see the pity in Jake’s eyes, and you can’t stand it so you turn away. 

“Please don’t do that,” you say softly. “Please don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. I will be fine.” You’re not even sure that made sense—words are falling out of your mouth in haste and fear.

“Lexa, love,” Jake says gently. He taps your hand. “Look at me, please.” You really, really don’t want to, but you comply anyway. “Thank you. What Clarke told me—and I suspect that’s not all of it—that’s abuse.” 

“NO!” You shake your head vehemently. “No. Stop. It’s not abuse. Or. I don’t know. Maybe it is. But no matter what you call it, it’s my life.”

Clarke and Jake exchange a glance. “It shouldn’t have to be,” Clarke says.

“But it is!” you exclaim. “It is. I’ve accepted it. It’s my life. Let’s just move on!”

Jake opens his mouth to say something, but you shoot him a glare. He holds up his hands in defense. “Let me just say one last thing, okay?” You allow him a quick nod. “If you ever need a safe place to go, please call me.” You’re about to interrupt, but he knows what you’re going to say. “Or Clarke. Call Clarke, but call me too. I’d also like to talk to a teacher at school about this. Indra?”He looks to Clarke for confirmation. 

“Indra?” she asks in disbelief. “Why her?”

“She’s a good woman,” he says. “I met her at student-teacher conferences. She might seem scary and might come across as harsh, but she’s good. She’ll be on your side, Lexa.”

More to shut him up than anything else, you say, “Okay.”

Your lunch wraps up not long after. As Jake walks you both to the car, he asks Clarke, “I’m almost afraid to ask, but does your mother know you’re here?”

“Ummm…” Clarke suddenly looks very guilty. “She may not even know that I talked to you?”

“Clarke!” Jake exclaims. “You need to tell her! I don’t want to hide things from her!”

After a bit of prodding, he coaxes a reluctant agreement from Clarke. Jake hugs you both tightly and promises to talk to you both soon. On the way home, Clarke says, “Thank you for coming with me. I don’t think I could have done it on my own.”

“Of course,” you reply. As if there were any other option! You can’t imagine a world in which you would have refused to help Clarke in this situation.

 

…  
By the time you get to speech class on Monday, you’re exhausted. Sometimes you don’t sleep well, and last night was one of those nights. It was probably because you had a lot on your mind. It was definitely because you had a lot on your mind—yesterday had been kind of an overload of emotions. So you’re dragging today. That’s probably why it almost knocks you off your feet when Ms. Indra discretely pulls you aside after class. Your thoughts quickly travel back to Jake’s promise yesterday, and you return to the present with a jarring realization. You know exactly what this is about. Suddenly your heart is in your throat, your hands clammy. This is something you weren’t prepared for.

“Don’t worry about being late,” she tells you. “I’ll write you a pass.” She’s trying to sound gentle and calming, but those are not Ms. Indra’s specialties. Keeping kids in line with a mere stern glance is more her thing. 

By now you wish you were anywhere but here; you can feel yourself start to slip away to somewhere more bearable, your automatic response when things at home get really bad, but you dig your nails into your palms and focus on how your feet are firmly planted on the floor. It might be hard, but you know you’ll want to remember this. Sometimes when you go away in your head, you don’t always remember what happens. 

“Jake Griffin called me yesterday,” Ms. Indra begins. You can feel her eyes on you, watching you closely for some sort of reaction. “He told me about your father. I have been paying special attention to you since the beginning of the school year. Your school work is exceptional, but sometimes you seem like you aren’t truly here. Will you tell me what has been on your mind?”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard Indra say at once. It’s maybe ironic for a speech teacher, but Indra rarely talks. She mostly leads the class in group discussions, only intruding to redirect if things become off track or potentially offensive. Even the kids who misbehave in your other classes remain focused in this one. It’s surprising in some ways because Ms. Indra’s the only black teacher at your, quite frankly, often racist school. There’s just something about her that makes people listen. You look up at her; she’s watching you, but she doesn’t look scary right now. For once she’s giving you a gentle smile and her eyes are so soft. So you tell her, haltingly, the same general things Clarke told Jake yesterday. When you finish, you’re watching your fingers trace a carving on the old wooden desk. Ms. Indra taps her fingers next to yours to prompt you to look at her. You’re fully expecting to see pity just like you saw from Clarke and from Jake, but Ms. Indra nods. It’s almost like she’s bowing her head to you in deference. You can see her sorrow, certainly, but it’s without pity because you can also see her respect and pride. It makes your fingers still, and you sit up a little straighter. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind you can admit to yourself how your dad treats you is abuse. And ordinarily you hate the term survivor. It feels canned, like it’s supposed to be empowering but is really just a glossing over of your experience. Victim has always felt right because it captures just how powerless and hopeless you feel most of the time. But in this moment, you feel like a survivor. You can feel the grin that wants to set your face alight with the joy that’s bubbling up inside of you. But you swallow it down because it’s not right in this moment. This moment where you and Ms. Indra are warriors, warriors who have fought battles and survived, this moment requires stoicism. You don’t know what purpose telling your story serves; you don’t know why you’re here, but you trust that the reasons will become clear. For now, you return Ms. Indra’s nod, and though it should feel foolish, it just feels right. 

 

…  
You’re especially grateful for Ms. Indra’s intervention when that evening you get stuck in the car alone with your dad as he drives you to and from soccer practice. Today he’s decided he doesn’t like how you look. Or, rather, he doesn’t like how you present yourself. 

“No boy is ever going to look at you if you keep dressing the way you do. You need to put effort into your appearance—wear nicer clothes, makeup, do something with your hair besides pull it up every damn day,” he starts off. 

It’s hard to bite back a retort about how it’s not a boy’s attention you want. With how bad things are, if you came out to your dad right now, you’re afraid he would try to kick you out of the house. You don’t think your mom would stand for that, but you aren’t sure. You’re not even sure if you’re gay, to be quite honest. But even if you were certain about your sexuality, you do know you don’t want to risk coming out; it isn’t worth it…at least not right now. 

“Are you listening to me?” he demands.

“Yes,” you mutter. 

You hadn’t been, but now you tune one ear into the conversation in case he asks you to repeat what he says. He’s talking about how you should carry yourself, why what he’s saying is important. It’s…well, you hate this topic because you’re sixteen. You’re sixteen, but you look younger and your nose is too big and your ears are too small and your forehead is too high. That’s not to mention your hair that you don’t know what to do with because it is curly and SO THICK. Logically you know most teenagers feel the way you do—that they don’t quite fit their bodies just yet, but it doesn’t really make it better for you. At least if you wear baggy clothes (which are also practical because of sports) and pull your hair up, you can pretend you don’t care you’re not pretty. And you know you’re not because your dad always tells you you’re not. Wearing makeup would mean you were trying, and you’d feel self conscious all day about what you were trying to prove. 

Plus, you don’t look in mirrors if you can help it, and putting on makeup would make that policy difficult. It’s partly because your dad so often tells you you’re self-absorbed. Refusing to look at yourself is one way you can prove to yourself you’re not; of course, now sometimes you have a hard time remembering you exist. It’s also partly because you hate how awkward you look right now. You’ll probably grow into yourself, but right now you only see the flaws your dad mentions. And, perhaps worst of all, when you look at yourself on bad days, sometimes you see your dad in your reflection. You know he’s embedded into your DNA. That’s bad enough. No matter how many showers you take, you can never wash him away, though sometimes you try. But it’s unbearable to see him in your chin and in your eyes, and wonder if that means you’re like him in other ways. So for now, you avoid your reflection whenever you can.

“So, what are you going to do differently?” your dad asks. 

“I’ll start dressing nicer.” Your voice is flat like it always is with him. He hates it, but at least it keeps you safe most of the time. 

“Good. I’m glad.” He starts humming along with the radio, happy with his victory.

You will start dressing nicer…at least for the next few days. You’ll wear your skinny jeans and a nice shirt, and you’ll straighten your hair for once. It takes forever, but it feels better than your curly hair does once you’ve put product in it. People will comment on it, but you suppose you can endure it…at least for the next few days. Then you can go back to dressing like you normally do because at least it’s comfortable and keeps people from looking at you. That’s all you can really hope for at this point. 

It warms your heart the next day when Clarke taps you on the shoulder in Spanish class and says, “I know everyone keeps saying you look really nice today. And, like, they’re right. But you—uh, you…everyday you look nice. You look nice because you’re…I don’t know. Pretty, or beautiful, I guess.” It looks like it’s painful for her to get those words out, so you bit your lip against the laugh that wants to escape at her stuttering and at the way her face turns red so fast it’s like someone flicked on a switch.

“Oh, I know,” you say with a smirk and a confident shrug because you know your faked swagger will make her laugh. It works, and you relish the swoop of happiness you feel in that moment. But it never occurs to you to believe her. 

 

…  
Things deteriorate after that. You’re not even sure why. Home’s not that much worse than usual, so you shouldn’t be struggling as much as you are. You’re not sleeping much. People have been quieter around you lately, probably because you look like you’re on your deathbed. Even Anya has been hovering beside you like she’s afraid you’re going to collapse and wants to be there to catch you. 

Clarke, though, defies expectations. She accepts your lies that you’re fine for a few days, but come Thursday, she says, “Why don’t you come stay at my house for a few days? My mom’s not around much, and you can get away for a little.”

“Stay with you?” you ask. You aren’t sure that either of your parents will let you. 

“Yeah!” she says, excitedly. “It’ll be like a mini vacation!”

“I’ll ask.”

You’re not hopeful, but you ask your mom that night anyway. She scrutinizes you, looks you up and down, catches sight of the dark circles under your eyes and your sagging shoulders. After a moment of hesitation, she agrees. You think maybe she understands. She lives with your dad too and knows how draining it is to always have to shield yourself from him, lest his insults destroy you. You go upstairs to pack what you’ll need (it’s the chargers that kill you—phone, laptop, insulin pump) for a few days. With a second thought, you grab a few extra outfits just in case. It belatedly occurs you that you should probably let Clarke know, so you text her. Thankfully she responds right away, so you’re ready to leave a few minutes later. You’ve avoided your dad so far, and if you’re quick, you’ll be at her house before he can pass you as you’re walking down the road. As you run out the door, out of the corner of your eye you see your mom’s face fall. Maybe she hates that she can’t protect you and feels like she’s failing you. You’ll never know because you’ll never ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I kind of hate this story, but I'm powering through, so no worries.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> picks up where the last chapter left off

You’re walking up the walkway to the Griffin’s downstairs door when Abby opens it, her head down as she searches in her purse for her keys. She emerges victorious and catches sight of you. You think she smiles, but it’s hard to tell in the glow of the security light that washes everything out. The sun had set much more quickly than you had expected, so you’d had to walk the last half mile in the dark. Your mom would not have let you walk if she’d known. But that doesn’t really matter now because Abby smiles at you. “Hey there, Lexiloo,” she says.

You heart lurches at the nickname she’d given you nearly a decade ago; it’s been years since you’ve heard it. It makes you grin, mostly against your will. You’re supposed to be on Jake’s side. “Hi, A—Mrs. Griffin.” You aren’t really sure what to call her anymore. 

“Please! It’s always been ‘Abby’ to you.” She’s so friendly, and you can’t reconcile this woman with the one who outed Jake. “I’m headed to the store to get some food; it’s been too long since I’ve gone. Any special requests?”

This is a much harder question than it used to be. “I—um, I mostly eat—”

Abby holds up a hand to stop you. “I know about the diabetes. You stick to a mostly paleo diet, I’m assuming?”

Sometimes you forget that Abby is a doctor, so moments like this throw you off. “Yes. I—it’s not strict, but mostly meat, cheese, eggs, and veggies. I trust you.” That’s true. You do trust her to pick out stuff you can eat. 

“But no seafood!” Abby says with a laugh as she climbs into her Jeep. 

You nod. You kind of can’t believe she remembered your deep hatred of seafood. Then again, it was always you and her against Jake and Clarke on this. Any time you’d joined them for dinner, the topic would invariably come up.

“I talked to your mom, by the way.” She’s stuck her head out the window, and you think she’s trying to sound offhand. “She said you needed to get away?” You stare at her, blank faced, not really sure how to answer her. Since you don’t give her the response she’s waiting for, she just keeps talking. “Anyway, you’re welcome here as long as you need. Things here are a…challenge right now, but you’re welcome, nonetheless.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Clarke’s inside,” she says before she pulls her head back into the car and backs down the driveway. 

You shake your head. This is going to be a strange and probably uncomfortable couple of days.

“LEXA!” Clarke exclaims the second you walk through the door. “You have to help me tonight. I still haven’t told my mom about our lunch with my dad.”

It takes you a few seconds to respond, mainly because she grabbed your bags even in her desperate plea, but you’re still thrown off from your encounter with Abby. “Oka—wait! What? You haven’t told her yet? That was two weeks ago!”

Clarke nods, shamefaced. “I know, I know. I just—I keep chickening out. I’ve been sneaking phone calls on Octavia’s and Raven’s phones. But my dad said he wouldn’t answer anymore unless I call from my phone…or yours.” She adds the last as an afterthought and laughs when you look taken aback. “He knows you won’t let me use your phone unless I talk to my mom because you’re ‘unfailingly responsible.’” She even does the air quotes with her fingers. 

You can’t help but grin at that. Jake has always known you very well. You absolutely wouldn’t let Clarke call from your phone until she told her mom that she’d been in contact with her dad. It would be wrong and betraying the trust Jake had placed in you. “I’ll be here, but you have to be the one to tell her. I’m not going to do it just because it makes you uncomfortable.” There’s a hint of warning in your tone that you think Clarke wasn’t expecting. But you won’t be Clarke’s lapdog. You won’t be the one to shoulder the awkwardness and strain between mother and daughter. It’s more than you can deal with, especially since you came here to escape from your family. 

“That’s…fair,” she admits. “I can’t argue with that.”

The two of you work on homework until Abby gets back. It’s only when you give Clarke a dirty look that she drags herself off of the couch and helps to bring in the groceries. It’s too much to expect Clarke to help with dinner, and Abby seems to agree because she doesn’t even bother to ask. Clarke does, however, finish her trig homework at the kitchen table while you and Abby whip up a simple stir fry. 

It shouldn’t be as easy as it is for you to compartmentalize. As angry as you are with Abby, as much as you can’t understand how she could have treated the man who had loved and supported her for so long so poorly, you still have no problem chatting with her about school and sports and plans for the future. 

You’ve all just taken a seat at the table, after Abby insists and insists again because you argue with her that you take extra chicken and veggies because you’re not eating rice, when Clarke blurts out out of nowhere, “I’ve been talking to dad. Lexa and I had lunch with him a couple of weeks ago.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you can feel your face turn red, though you doubt it’s as red as Clarke’s. Yet, while you’re too terrified of Abby’s response to even glance in her direction, Clarke has her head held high and is looking boldly at her. 

“I’m sorry. Did you just say—”

“I’m talking to Dad,” Clarke repeats steadily. “I found out he came to parent-teacher conferences, so I called him. I—I missed him. He invited Lexa and me to lunch, and we talked. He told me what happened.” Now you can see the accusation in her eyes.

“Oh? And what was that?” You hear the cutting anger in Abby’s voice, and you can’t help but look at her. It’s a habit you picked up to protect yourself against your dad. You have to assess potentially dangerous situations so you know if you need to escape. “That he fell in love and never told me? Or that he was gay and never told me? Or that he left me for Marcus and never told me? I’m sorry Clarke, but you don’t get to sit here and pretend like I’m the one to blame in all this.”

You clench your jaw because Clarke’s face is twisted with fury, and you know this is going to get ugly. “What about him?” Clarke shouts. “What about how you let it slip to the press that he was in love with a man? Just to help your lousy campaign! And he didn’t even find out until his boss fired him because this is a shitty, backward town! You ruined his life when HE WAS GOING TO STAY WITH YOU! You are the only one to blame in this!” Abby is staring at Clarke like she has sprouted another head, and Clarke pauses to swallow and blink back tears. When she starts talking again, her voice is much softer. “You know what the worst part is? You outed him against his will. That’s pretty much the worst thing you could have done. And I wonder if you’re going to do it to me.”

You tear your eyes away from Clarke to look at Abby when she doesn’t immediately respond. The way she’s blinking slowly tells you she’s processing a lot of new information, which is…interesting. Maybe none of you have the whole story. Maybe she, Jake, and Clarke are all so isolated in their side of the story that they can’t see anyone else’s.

“Clarke,” Abby finally breathes, her brow pinched with pain. “I didn’t out him. I would never ever do that.”

“Then—” Clarke tries to interject, but Abby cuts her off.

“But it is my fault. I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen. I hate myself for it every day.” Abby looks like she’s about to cry.

Clarke just looks confused. “You’re not making sense, Mom.” It’s been awhile since you’ve heard Clarke’s voice sound so flat and disinterested. It’s how she used to talk to you back when she was spreading rumors about you. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism she uses when she’s afraid of showing how she really feels; that would have been helpful to know five years ago.

“When your dad and I found the letter…you know about the letter?” Abby looks up from her hands that she was twisting in her lap. Clarke nods, and half a beat later, so do you. You’re not sure if Abby was even asking you, but you’re present for this conversation, so you do it anyway. “Okay, good. After we read the letter together, I didn’t know what to think. But I felt…I felt betrayed, like your dad had ruined our twenty years of marriage. It didn’t matter what he said to defend himself. I couldn’t—I couldn’t think at that point. I just felt betrayed. 

“So I called Thelonious Jaha. He was running my campaign, but he was also my friend. He listened and told me it would be okay, that we’d figure it out. The next day, I turned on the news and saw that I’d apparently told the press about Jake and Marcus.”

You and Clarke glance at each other in disbelief. “Shit,” Clarke whispers. “Jaha betrayed you? My godfather?”

Abby nods. “Your dad was already at work, so I couldn’t warn him. But I called Jaha. He told me it was a surefire way to win this campaign—Abby Griffin is so pro family values that she’s unwilling to make compromises even for her own family—so he had to take it. I was so angry and hurt and more betrayed than your dad ever made me feel. But it had already been leaked. There was nothing I could do, so I decided I had to run with it. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. Maybe I should have just dropped out and gone back to working full-time at the hospital instead of just picking up shifts here and there. I don’t know.” Abby drops her head into her hands, and now you know she’s crying. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything, Clarke. I didn’t mean to betray your dad. I promise that.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, and she’s looking rather tearful too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry for being so awful to you for so long.” 

Abby wipes her eyes on her sleeves and looks up at Clarke. “No, no. I’m so sorry. Everything has been so complicated and messy. I didn’t mean to keep you from Jake. I just couldn’t think about him. I thought he left me because now that his secret was out, there was nothing stopping him from leaving. I didn’t realize he thought I was the one who betrayed him. I—I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Call him,” you say, surprising Clarke and Abby whom you’re pretty sure forgot you were there. Certainly it’s a complicated situation, but the solution seems obvious to you. “Call him and explain. Nothing will ever get better if you don’t talk about it.”

“What if he won’t talk to me?” She sounds hopeless, like she can’t imagine a way out of this immensely difficult situation.

But you know otherwise. “He will.” You’re not sure why you’re certain, but you absolutely are. There’s no doubt that Jake will pick up the phone when he sees Abby’s number on the screen. Maybe it’s because you know he misses her. Or because he feels like he owes it to her since they were together for so long. If nothing else, he might be afraid something happened to Clarke. You don’t know how you know, but you’re certain. 

Abby blows her nose in her napkin and nods. When she pulls her phone out of her back pocket, you have a moment of panic. Her plate and Clarke’s might lie forgotten on the table, but you’d already taken insulin, so you need to eat the rest of your dinner. You suppose you could take it with you out of the room, but when you make to stand up, Abby says, “Stay. Finish eating. I’m—I don’t want to make this call alone.” She breaks off with an embarrassed laugh; it must be hard to admit you’re afraid to talk to the person you were married to for twenty years. 

Clarke looks stunned, like she can’t believe everything that has happened in the past twenty minutes. She’s not even pushing around her food on her plate. She’s set her fork down and pulled her knees to her chest. With her chin on her knees, she’s watching her mother, eyes filled with hope. You know she has no misplaced belief that her parents will get back together. But she has a tempered hope that things will get a little bit better, that she won’t have to hide having a relationship with her dad anymore, and that maybe her parents can be friends once the initial wounds have scabbed over. 

You, on the other hand, feel rather awkward here, like you don’t belong. Because…well…you don’t, really. But somehow your presence seems to be making Clarke and her mom calmer, so you suck up the awkwardness and keep eating. 

“Hi Jake. It’s me,” Abby says into the phone, her hand pressed against her forehead anxiously. “No, no. Clarke’s fine. I just—I’m here with the girls…yeah. Clarke and Lexa. Clarke said she’s been in contact with you?”

Listening to a one-sided conversation is maddening, you find, because you aren’t sure what Jake is saying. “No, no. I’m not mad. I didn’t mean to keep her from you. I just couldn’t deal with everything that happened. But Clarke told me that you both think I…betrayed you or something. It was Jaha,” she blurts out the last part. “I told him about you and Kane, so I’m not blameless, but I swear I didn’t know he would tell the press.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, then Abby lets out a long, slow breath. “Yes. I know. I’m so sorry. I haven’t handled it well. I—hang on.” She smiles at Clarke as she stands up and makes her way to her room. You’re glad that she decided she needed some privacy because you know this is going to get too personal. Although, you’re also glad that as she walks down the hall to her bedroom, you hear her say, “Everything happened so fast it doesn’t seem real. Sometimes I find myself waiting for you to come home from work before I realize you’re not coming home. I’m still so in love with you.”

Clarke looks at you from across the table, wide-eyed. “I—” she breaks off and shakes her head. 

You understand. That was quite an experience, one you’re not sure you’d want to relive. The part that is resounding in your mind, playing over and over again, is when Abby referred to you and Clarke as “the girls,” and Jake didn’t have to ask what that meant. You love that you belong so well in this family that even after half a decade, you can fit right back in. And you love that it slipped off of Abby’s tongue so easily. But you hate it too because it feels too close and because no matter how much you wish it could be, it’s not real and never will be. You’ll never have the same safety and warmth that Clarke does. Not really. 

You think about that as you and Clarke finish dinner in silence. You’re pretty sure she’s listening as hard as she can to see if she can hear any of Abby’s conversation through the closed bedroom door. You’re also pretty sure she can’t hear anything. The two of you clean up and then watch TV mindlessly for a couple of hours. Abby still hasn’t reemerged, and Clarke still hasn’t really spoken by the time the two of you get ready for bed.

You’re in her room on the same cot they used to set up for you when you had sleepovers in elementary school. As you lie on the same sagging mattress with the same musty smell, you have to fight off waves of nostalgia. Just like old times, you both read for a bit before you go to sleep. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, finally breaking her silence. You turn your head to see her leaning over the side of her bed. “Do you think my mom is ignoring the way I kind of mentioned being not straight? Do you think I fucked up by telling her?”

You narrow your eyes in consideration. It’s a fair question. “No,” you decide. “I think she hasn’t quite processed what she heard. I think she’ll come talk to you when she realizes what you said.”

Clarke nods, decently mollified, though you know she doesn’t completely believe you. After how her mom responded to the mess with her dad, you can’t blame her. But you trust that Abby will come through for her. You’re not completely sure why because you have the same knowledge as Clarke, but you really do believe Abby is trying to make things right. Maybe she and Clarke are the same in that. They both have made tremendous mistakes, mistakes that will never fully be undone, but they’ll both try their hardest to do it anyway.

That’s why when Abby knocks on Clarke’s bedroom door an hour later, you’re relieved but not surprised. “Can I come in?” Her voice is tentative, and when Clarke answers in the affirmative and Abby enters, you can see that her eyes are puffy from crying. But they’re also bright, and she looks happy…or at least happier. 

She takes a seat on the bed beside Clarke’s feet and says to you, “Can you give us a minute?”

You’re in the process of untangling yourself from the covers when the panic in Clarke’s voice stops you. “No. Stay. Please.”

You can tell she’s genuinely afraid, if not for her life then for her relationship with her mother and her home. This very real fear, the one that nearly every queer person feels in moments like this, makes you cast a pleading look at Abby. You promised Jake you’d try to protect Clarke, and you’re going to follow through.

“Fine, stay.” Abby lets out a heavy sigh, like she can’t believe her relationship with her daughter has been damaged so much that they need a third party present just to talk. “I just got off the phone with your dad. We’re going to try to be better. I’m going to try to be better. Because what’s been going on hasn’t been fair to you. He’s going to come over for weekly dinners.”

“Good.” Clarke sounds a bit breathless. You know she’s terrified, but she still fights for what she stands for. She lifts her chin in defiance and says, “What about Marcus? Will he come?” 

Abby laughs a shaky laugh and pats Clarke’s foot. “Not the first couple of times, but he’s welcome here. I want them both to feel safe to be themselves. I want that for you, too.” And she casts a knowing look at Clarke to let her know that she’d heard what Clarke had said earlier and to give her an opening to say more.

Clarke glances at you, gulps, and says, “I’m bisexual. I—only you, dad, and Lexa know. I’m not ready to tell anyone else, so don’t worry about me messing up your career.”

“No, Clarke. No.” Abby sounds heartbroken. She moves to sit beside Clarke’s head and strokes her hair. “I love you. I want you to be who you are. Please don’t worry about my career. Just be you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly safe for me to be out at school, so that’s on hold.”

Abby looks like Clarke slapped her across the face. “I didn’t—I’d never thought of that. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard to have to hide who you are. I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t be yourself even at home. I promise I’ll do everything I can to protect you, and I’ll welcome whomever you decide to date.”

Clarke nods, a jerky motion that is trying to hide her both her fear and relief. And definitely to prevent her from crying. Then Abby turns thoughtful. “Are you and Lexa…”

“No!” Clarke exclaims immediately. “No. We’re not…Lexa’s not…No. Just no.”

Abby seems to understand that she unintentionally walked into something she didn’t fully understand. “I see,” she says delicately as she glances in your direction. 

The conversation winds down soon after, and you’re glad. You’re tired, and Abby is making you uncomfortable. You’re glad Clarke denied a relationship with you so quickly, but it made you feel weird that Abby had made the assumption in the first place. What if other people can see your feelings for Clarke? And what if they know you’re gay? You don’t know what would happen, but when Clarke reaches down after the lights are turned off, you fall asleep holding her hand anyway. 

 

…  
You don’t have a soccer game that weekend, so your coach scheduled practice. Your mom offers to drive you, but Clarke tells you to tell her she’ll do it. She actually seems entirely too excited about it, if you’re telling the truth. It’s not like it’s a game or something. At most you might do a half field scrimmage. But Clarke is going on and on about how she’s never seen you play.

“You haven’t seen me play?” you interrupt her. For some reason that seems like it can’t be right. “Really?”

Clarke glances away from the road for a second to grin at you. “Nope! Today’s the first time. I always had art lessons after school, so I could never come to your school games. Besides, none of my friends would have wanted to come with me. I bet you’re awesome!”

“I’m okay,” you say, looking out the window. You feel awkward when people compliment you. What are you supposed to say in response to something like that? Thankfully you’re pulling into the parking lot by then, so you’re able to get away with not saying anything else. You hop out of the car and jog over to join your teammates. 

Throughout the two-hour practice, you glance over at Clarke periodically to make sure she’s okay. She seems to have charmed the few moms that decided to stick around for practice. Every time you look over at them, they’re in stitches at something Clarke has said. You must not be very subtle about your observations because Costia, probably your closest friend on the team, bumps into your shoulder during a water break. 

“That your girlfriend?” she asks, repeatedly nudging you because she knows it will get a rise out of you.

It works. You shove her away from you. “No,” you say, your face blushing against your wishes. “Just my friend.”

Costia throws back her head and laughs, white teeth flashing against her dark skin. “You sure about that? She looks pretty jealous right now.”

You look over your shoulder at Clarke, and she does seem to be unpleased with Costia’s arm that’s now around your waist. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Oooooh,” Costia taunts you. “You like her back!”

“No I don’t!” You need to shut this down; you can’t let her think you’re gay. 

Costia gives you an unimpressed look and leans over your shoulder to press her cheek against yours. “Lexa. Come on.”

You decide to relent, so you let out a breath in a huff and watch as Costia’s dreads that were in front of your face blow up and come back down. “Okay, okay. I like her. But…how did you know?”

“You’re…kidding, right?” Costia pulls back to look at you in disbelief. “Don’t you remember when you first joined the team? I had such a huge crush on you. I flirted with you all the time. And you flirted back!”

That’s…a revelation. “You’re gay?” you ask. 

“Yep.”

You think back to two years ago. Costia had been friendly with you. The two of you had a ton of inside jokes, and she was constantly touching you. You’d made fun of each other all of the time, and the prank playing was out of control. Coach Gustus had to reprimand you more than once. “Huh,” you say.

“Oh my god!” Costia says again. “You’re serious? That’s some seriously impressive denial, Lexa. You almost kissed me! Don’t you remember that?”

It’s not that you don’t remember the moment she’s talking about. You do. You’d tripped her and had done a really good job of it because Costia fell. But she pulled you down in the process. Your faces had been really close together, and now that you think about it, you had really wanted to kiss her. She was so cool and funny and had the best hair. But Coach Gustus had blown his whistle and ruined the moment. Before now you had never consciously considered that you were going to kiss her. “Huh,” you repeat.

Costia shoves you playfully. “You’re such a nerd! But welcome to the gay club! Are you going to ask her out? It’s super obvious she likes you too.”

That makes you frown. “I—I can’t,” you tell Costia, glancing around to make sure your teammates are all still engaged in their own conversations. They’re probably more understanding than most people you know, but them finding out is not a risk you want to take. “It’s not safe. My parents—” you break off and shake your head. “But even if they would be okay with it, it’s not safe to be out at my school. You know how bad it is.”

She gives you an understanding nod. “Yeah. I forgot about that.” Coach Gustus blows the whistle then to reconvene practice, but Costia manages to sneak in a hug of solidarity. “Someday things will be better. I promise.”

You think about those words for the rest of practice and on the way home. She might be right. Logically you realize she probably is, but most of the time it doesn’t feel that way. Mostly it feels like things will always suck and that you’re trapped forever in this awful rural hell with no hope for escape. 

Clarke notices you brooding, you’re sure, but she doesn’t say anything because she’s brooding too. It’s not until you’re almost home that she speaks. “I was right. You are really good at soccer. You’re more aggressive than I thought you’d be.”

That makes you light up inside. It’s one of your favorite things. People think you’re small and timid, but on the field you get to knock people over. “Thanks!” you can’t hide the enthusiasm, which makes Clarke laugh.

But then she grows contemplative again. “It’s just…it’s weird that you have this whole side of your life that I don’t know about. You have all of these friends I’ve never heard of because you’ve never mentioned them.”

You shrug. “I’m not that close to any of them. That’s why I don’t talk about them. They’re cool and fun, but we don’t talk much outside of practices and games.”

“That girl…the uh…the one with the dreads…” Clarke trails off. 

“Costia.” 

“Costia. You seem close to her.”

You think about that. “Maybe,” you allow. “We text sometimes, but I still mostly talk to her at soccer. She doesn’t know about…she doesn’t know that much about me.” Costia might know you’re gay, but she doesn’t know about your family or anything about your life, really. 

“Cool.” 

You aren’t sure if Clarke’s fears are allayed, and you know she has fears of being excluded for some reason. Maybe Costia’s right and Clarke is jealous. Or maybe it’s something else. But she drops the subject after that and doesn’t bring it up again.

 

…  
When you wake up on Sunday morning, Clarke informs you that Raven is coming over that afternoon because she and her mom had a fight.

“Like…” You scrunch up your face, not really sure how to phrase it.

Clarke knows what you’re thinking, though, and she sharply shakes her head. “Not like you. Her mom’s actually pretty cool, just overprotective. Raven asked if she could join the swim team, and her mom said no because of her leg. It’s stupid because Raven swims really well. It’s even good for her leg! My mom has talked with her doctors and everything. Her mom’s being unreasonable.”

“Hmm…” you say. You briefly entertain the idea of asking how Raven ended up in the brace, but quickly decide against it. It’s none of your business, and even if it were, Clarke isn’t the one who should tell you. It should come from Raven. Instead, you go with: “That’s annoying.”

“Yeah. So anyway, Raven’s coming over this afternoon to get away from her mom. They both just need some space to cool off.”

“Hmm…” you repeat. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why isn’t Raven in our Spanish class?” It’s been bothering you for awhile. It seems like Raven would jump at the chance to take an easy class. But after speech class, she goes to Latin instead, which is a notoriously hard class. 

Clarke looks at you in disbelief and then bursts into laughter. “Because Spanish is her first language,” she tells you like it’s obvious. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. She totally tried to take Spanish, but the guidance counselor shut that down crazy fast.”

“Oh,” you say. You feel kind of foolish, but you hadn’t known about that. There’s no real reason why you should have, you suppose, since you and Raven don’t talk much. You shrug and go to the bathroom to brush your teeth. 

Raven does come over that afternoon, and she greets you with the usual, “What up, grounder?”

It pisses you off, but what are you going to do? So you just roll your eyes in response. The three of you wind up down on the bridge that runs over the creek in the woods behind Clarke’s house. You were going to hang back, but Clarke and, surprisingly Raven, insist you join them. Sitting on the bridge with your feet dangling just inches above the water, you’re cold, almost uncomfortably so, but you don’t say anything because Clarke and Raven invited you so you don’t want to complain. 

You listen quietly to Raven complain about her mom. She has so much energy and is so brash. It intimidates you. But you like how Clarke lights up around her. Your favorite Clarke will always be the sweet and gentle Clarke she is around you, but this one is a close second. 

“God. I’m not giving up on my dream of becoming an astrophysicist. It’s not like I want to be a fucking Olympic swimmer or something. It’s not going to hurt my leg. I just want to join a shitty high school swim team!” Raven finishes her rant.

The tirade is fairly standard and pretty much exactly a reiteration of what she’s been saying for the past half hour, but it’s impressive nonetheless. But it’s not what catches your attention. “You want to be an astrophysicist?” you ask.

“Hell yeah!” She gives you a friendly punch on the shoulder. “I’m gonna be a kickass astrophysicist and piss off all the white dudes who think they’re better than I am.”

“That’s really cool.” It is. It’s an impressive job, but it’s even more impressive that she’s so certain she knows what she wants to do with her life. 

Raven nods enthusiastically. “Hell yeah it is! What do you want to be?”

That’s a hard question. A really hard question. You don’t have a good answer, but since she asked, you run through the options in your mind. Doctor isn’t right and neither is teacher. Maybe you could be a lawyer or politician. Maybe. All you’re really sure is that you want to be, “Safe.”

You don’t mean to say it aloud, but it slips out anyway. Clarke grabs your arm in a panicked motion and is about to say something when Raven catches your eye. She must see that you can’t handle whatever Clarke is going to say, so she discretely nods in your direction, and says, “Cool. What about you, Clarke?”

Clarke hesitates, but she goes with it. You’re thankful she trusts Raven. “I want to be a doctor, a surgeon I think. I’m not as smart as the two of you, but I think I’m smart enough to be a good surgeon.” Clarke rambles on a bit more, and you can feel Raven regarding you thoughtfully. “And, I don’t know. I guess I kind of want to find myself,” Clarke finishes.

You can feel your face scrunch up in what you figure is probably a disgusted expression, at least that’s what you guess it is based on your hatred of the phrase “finding yourself.” Raven points at you. “Go!” she exclaims, mysteriously.

“Go where?”

“Say whatever you were thinking about saying. I know that face. It’s the one you make in class right before you say something brilliant.”

That’s astounding. You don’t know what to do with the information that Raven has noticed you. You’d thought you were invisible in school. So often it feels like that, and it’s how you prefer it. Except, knowing Raven pays attention to you…it makes you feel warm and…weird. “I don’t do that.”

“Yes. You absolutely do,” Clarke confirms. “Say it!”

You sigh, thoroughly confused but still somehow pleased that Clarke too has noticed you. “Fine. I hate when people say ‘I’m finding myself.’ It’s such a position of…”

“Privilege?” Raven suggests when you can’t come up with the right word.

You consider that, but “privilege” doesn’t seem right. You’re not sure what kind of privilege it is. Having a healthy family? You’re not quite comfortable with putting it on the same level as white privilege or something. “Naïveté,” you say instead. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just jealous that people have the luxury of not knowing who they are. I have to know exactly who I am and what I stand for at all times as a matter of survival.”

Clarke looks like you slapped her in the face. You’re about to apologize when Raven unexpectedly says, “You’ve never asked me about my leg. You and your angry pal with the high cheekbones—”

“Anya,” you interject, defensively. If nothing else, Raven is going to call her by her name. Anya is more than just angry. 

“Anya,” Raven agrees. “You and Anya are the only two people at school who haven’t. You know why that is?”

“Um…it’s none of my business?” You’re not sure where this is going.

“Nope! Guess again! Actually, don’t guess again. I’ll just tell you. It’s because I’m pretty sure the two of you get what it’s like to be broken and to not want to be reminded of it. When I was little, my mom and I lived with my dad who was an abusive asshole. One time he shoved me down the stairs. Now I’m stuck in this brace because I broke my back in that fall, and I don’t have a ton of feeling in my leg.”

“I—” You start to say something, anything in response, but Raven cuts you off.

“Nope! You don’t have to say anything. I don’t want your pity, much like you don’t want mine. I’m just saying that I know what it’s like to build a fortress of protection around yourself so no one can hurt you. But I also know that someday you’ll feel safe enough that you’ll realize you want to do more than just survive. And then your fortress will start to feel like a prison. Do you know what you’ll do then?” She pauses to wait for an answer.

You glance at Clarke and suddenly this all feels like a setup, like Clarke brought Raven here to talk to you, specifically. Maybe you’re reading into it, but maybe not. Either way, it’s an interesting conversation, so you give her the benefit of the doubt. “I’ll find myself?”

Raven scoffs. “No, girl. Finding yourself isn’t for people like you and me. There’s nothing for us to find. No. You’ll burn that prison to the ground and make a new self from the ashes. A self you like and who wants to live, not just survive. You and me? We don’t have the luxury of finding ourselves, you’re right about that. We make ourselves.”

For the first time in a long time, real hope for the future blossoms in your chest. You allow yourself to smile and to lean into Clarke’s arms that have been waiting for you since the beginning of this conversation. Your back is pressed against her chest, and you can breathe. Easily, that is. It’s enough to bring tears to your eyes, but you won’t cry, so you twist your neck to press your face against Clarke’s neck. You don’t even care that Raven is watching because she wouldn’t betray you; she’s proven herself to be on your side.

 

…  
A few days later you go home and immediately catch a cold. It figures that would happen the week of the state cross-country meet. The cold is annoying, but what is worse is that it makes your blood sugar go out of whack. Every time you eat, your blood sugar skyrockets and takes forever to come back down even with more insulin than usual, so you compensate by not eating breakfast or lunch. It’s maybe not doctor recommended, but it’s better than the day when you ate breakfast and spent the morning with blurry vision and a nearly overwhelming desire to sleep. But it also means you have to run at practice without having eaten, which is dangerous. 

On the morning of states, you eat the eggs with cheese your mom makes you and hope for the best. It doesn’t go particularly well, but it’s also not too terrible. Once you walk the course and start warming up, your blood sugar goes down, and you start to feel better. Not great, but better. You feel well enough that you don’t need to tell your coach you can’t run. Besides, if you back out, your dad will make it obvious that he’s disappointed in you. He’ll talk about how weak you are and how you always fake illness. It’s not worth it, so you set your resolve and decide to race. 

Your team had made it to states by the skin of their teeth, so there’s really not much pressure for you guys to do well. It’s projected you’re going to finish somewhere near the bottom. Even though your coaches try to get you guys amped up, telling you you’re going to win, everyone knows it’s not true. Anya might run fast enough to get a medal, but none of the rest of you will, and you certainly won’t place as a team. 

Soon after, the gun goes off. And before you know it (really and truly because you never remember races afterwards), you’re finished. You give Anya a giant hug when you find out she ran the race of her life and got tenth place. It’s funny, but sports are the one time when you don’t mind physical contact and neither does Anya. But you don’t get to celebrate with her for long because you have a soccer game to get to.

On the way your mom makes you eat the chicken salad she packed you along with some carrots. Instead of it making you feel better, you can feel your vision getting blurry again. The runny nose from your cold just makes everything worse. 

Soccer games are a little different than meets for you. You always remember every part of them in great detail. So when your body grows uncomfortably tingly and you barely manage to stay on your feet, you’re intimately aware of it. But through a concentrated effort and lots of water, you actually manage to have a pretty good game. You score two goals and assist Costia on a third. It’s a close game, but Costia’s goal cinches it for your team. The final whistle blows.

And then you collapse.

You don’t lose consciousness, but you also can’t really move. It takes too much energy, and you just want to sleep. Also to drink a gallon of water. Both sound like heaven. Coach Gustus is by your side in seconds, and you belatedly remember he’s an athletic trainer. He knows what to do, so that’s good at least.

“Call an ambulance please, Harper.” His voice is thankfully calm and not overly loud. You’re not sure you could stand him panicking or screaming right now. “Here, Lexa. Drink this.”

He puts a paper cup to your lips and tilts some liquid into your mouth. It’s Gatorade, which you really, really cannot have. It takes all of your strength, but you turn your head to the side and cough until it drains out of your mouth. “Can’t.” Words are so hard right now. Your brain is moving so slowly, but you vaguely remember Gustus doesn’t know.

“Yes you can. Come on, Lexa.”

“No,” you say. “Diabetic.”

Coach Gustus’ face is swimming in and out of focus, but you see him flinch. “Diabetic? You’re a diabetic? Type 1, I’m assuming?” You nod. He looks up and shouts, “Monroe! Bring her bag! No, no. Costia, please keep her mom back. Lexa’ll be okay. Just give her space.” You cringe at the noise just as he looks back at you. “Sorry about that.” His voice is much quieter now. “Why didn’t you tell me you were diabetic?”

It takes you a few seconds to get the words in an order you think makes sense. “Dad didn’t want me to. Thought I wouldn’t make the team.”

“No, Lexa.” He sounds sad. “We just would have made sure you were safe. We would have made sure something like this didn’t happen.”

You hum in response. “S’cool.” You’re not even really sure what you’re saying anymore. “Left it all on the field. Scored two goals.”

“And then you collapsed because your blood sugar is way too high,” Coach Gustus concludes. Huh. You didn’t even feel him prick your finger. That’s probably bad. “Where’s your pump? I’m going to give you some more insulin.”

“Here.” You tap the hidden pocket in your shorts. “Won’t work though. Been high all week.”

“Lexa!” Gustus exclaims in disbelief. “You should not have been playing!”

Maybe that’s true, but it’s also only a part of the story. “But we would have lost.”

“Lexa. I would much rather have lost the game and had you healthy. You’re more important than a stupid soccer game.”

The insulin is actually helping a little. You feel a little clearer. And you can hear an ambulance in the distance. “My dad will be proud at least,” you mutter. 

Now it’s Coach Gustus’ turn to hum in disapproval. “Then his priorities are wrong,” he mutters right back.

It’s your second time in an ambulance. The first time was when you hadn’t yet been diagnosed, and you’d collapsed at school. This time is slightly less embarrassing, though no less annoying. The EMTs are poking and prodding at you, and they won’t let you fall asleep. Don’t they know that you have a cold and that your high blood sugar is making you want to fall asleep? (the reasonable part of you knows they’re doing their job)

What you don’t expect is that when you’re wheeled into the emergency room and put into a curtained off area—you’re a priority, but not an emergency—it’s Abby Griffin who greets you. “Lexa!” she says in surprise. “So you’re the reason I have a group of sweaty girls and a coach out in my emergency room!” You hadn’t realized she was working today. She picks up shifts here and there because she likes being a doctor and didn’t want to give it up during her reign as a state senator. 

“Guilty,” you say with a smile. You’re grateful for the interruption to your mom’s anxious chattering. She’s worried about you and worried about your dad because he’s not picking up his phone. You tried to tell her your dad is notorious for not answering his phone, but that doesn’t really address the fact that he’s supposed to take Aden to marching band practice and bring him dinner before the competition, and neither of you are sure he’ll remember. 

Abby takes a look at your chart and raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Were you feeling poorly when you were at my house?”

You think about the timeline. “Um…no. It started after.”

“Are you sure? You seem to have gone downhill fast. Is there something else going on?”

“I have a cold. Sometimes my blood sugar gets weird when I’m sick. And I wasn’t eating right because of that. Plus I ran a meet today and played a soccer game.”

“Uh…” Abby clears her throat and tries again. You don’t love the way she’s gaping at you. “That would do it. I’m going to call your endocrinologist to find out if he can come see you, but we’re going to keep you here at least overnight until your blood sugar stabilizes. There’s no sense in sending you home only to end up back here.”

Your mom passes her hand over her face. “Oh, Lex,” she says sadly.

“It’s okay, mom. Go take care of Aden.” You know she’s still worried about that. Besides, what is she going to do for you here?

“What about you? I can’t leave you alone in the hospital!”

Abby clears her throat again. “If you have to go, I’m sure Clarke and Jake will come. Actually, I’m pretty sure if I text them, they’ll insist on coming.”

Your mom looks conflicted; she’s obviously not sure how to voice what she’s thinking. “Isn’t Jake—”

Abby cuts her off. “We’re still friends, and I know he cares about Lexa.”

“And you trust him to…to not…”

“I trust him unequivocally.” Abby’s voice is polite, but you can see the way she clenches her jaw against her anger at what she knows your mom is hinting. 

Your mom sighs and relents. She looks at you with a conspiratorial smile. “Okay. Just don’t tell your dad. It would be bad for all of us.” You can’t bring yourself to smile back because you know she’s right. It would be bad. 

When your mom leaves and after Abby has texted Jake, she takes a seat by your bed. “So,” she says, patting your leg. “Your coach mentioned some things that you said to him. Your dad wouldn’t let you tell anyone you were diabetic and that he’ll be proud of you for playing until you collapse?”

“Yeah.” You’re wary about where this conversation is going, but it’s true. You did say that. You said it because it was true. 

“That’s concerning, Lexiloo.” Abby pauses to gauge your reaction; you don’t give her much of one, so she continues. “Gustus reported it to the hospital social worker who is talking to your mom right now, I think. He’ll come talk to you next.”

You gape at Abby. Of all the things she could have said, that fell somewhere near the bottom of the list of what you expected. “Are they going to take me away?” At this point, you’re not even sure how you feel about that possibility. You’ve heard that foster care is bad, but so is your home. 

“No, kid. Certainly not for this. Probably nothing will happen. What will talking to him hurt?”

That’s somehow worse. You’re going to have to tell your story to a stranger for no gain, and your mom might tell your dad what you said. What could it hurt? Literally everything. But Abby steps out a few minutes later, and the social worker comes in. You nod when he tells you your mom gave him permission to talk to you and answer his questions. He doesn’t seem to care, or at the very least, he doesn’t react. When he leaves, you almost forget he ever came because you’re admitted then and finally allowed to shower and sleep. 

 

…  
You don’t get to sleep for long, though. A nurse in light pink scrubs comes in not much later and gives you an IV. 

“What’s that for?” you ask. You’re drinking water regularly, so it’s not like you particularly need an IV for fluids. 

She looks at you in mild surprise. “They didn’t tell you? You have a pretty nasty sinus infection, so we’re giving you antibiotics. Hopefully if we get the infection under control, your blood sugar will follow.”

They hadn’t told you, but that’s not wholly surprising considering all of the craziness that has happened since you got here. After the nurse leaves, you’re alone. Abby must have gone back to her shift once you fell asleep. It doesn’t bother you; you know Clarke and Jake will be along soon.

You’re just starting to doze when Clarke comes rushing in followed by Jake who is lagging behind because he’s lugging a backpack and duffel bag—your backpack and duffle bag to be specific. 

“Oh my God!” Clarke shrieks, stopping just short of your bed. You’re grateful because you were already pretty uncomfortable. The sheets are rough, and the paper shorts and the tag from the hospital gown are scratching you. Plus, you’re sick, and your blood sugar is still kind of high and making you feel unpleasantly tingly. And you’re hungry because you haven’t eaten enough all week. The IV has only made things worse. Now every time you move your arm, you feel it pull. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but you don’t love it either. “Are you okay? What happened?”

You glance up at Jake, uncertain how to react to a Clarke who is tearful on your behalf. He gives you a soft smile and sets your bags down next to the bedside table. “Clarke grabbed some things from your house,” he says gently as he places a calming hand on Clarke’s shoulder. Instantly she relaxes. “Clothes, books, your laptop, phone charger. You know, the basics.” 

“Thanks, Clarke,” you say, your voice not much more than a whisper. You’re not sure why you feel so weird about this. “I’m okay,” you assure her. Then you let out your first laugh since you collapsed when she gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen. “I will be okay,” you correct. “My blood sugar hasn’t been very stable this week because I’m sick, and I did too much today.”

“You collapsed.” Clarke spits out the consonants like they disgust her. “You could have died.” Her eyes are stormy with anger, and she shrugs off Jake’s hand, no longer willing to accept his comfort. “Lexa, what would I have done then? You can’t—you’re not allowed to die. I need you to take care of yourself. I need you.”

Clarke’s words make your stomach churn, and you swallow back the bile. Jake steps forward and takes your hand in his. “Abby mentioned that you had to talk to a social worker. What happened there?”

For the first time since you were admitted, you wonder what happened with Coach Gustus and your team. You suppose they went home once they learned you were going to be okay. 

“Lexa?” Jake’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you remember he asked you a question.

“Oh, yeah.” You glance up at Clarke and see her slumped over on the chair by your bed. She’s not even looking at you. “Um…it’s kind of a long story.”

Jake nods and takes a seat in the other chair. “We have time.”

So you tell him and Clarke everything that happened today. It’s easier than you would have thought to get the words out. And afterward, you don’t say much and neither do they. But Clarke wordlessly scoots her chair forward and bumps her head against your arm like she’s a cat. And, just like you would a cat, you run your fingers through your hair. It’s only a minute later or so that you remember Jake is still in the room. Your heart starts to pound in your chest; what will he say? You have to remind yourself he’s not your dad. Jake is not your dad, and you’re safe. When you finally gain the courage to look in his direction, he has the most affectionate expression you’ve ever seen on his face. And you know it will be alright. 

After about an hour or so, you start to fall asleep again. Your eyelids are so heavy; no matter how hard you try to keep them open, they keep slipping closed. “Clarke,” Jake says softly. “We should get going. I’ll give you a minute?”

Clarke nods. You feel Jake’s lips brush against your forehead before he walks through the door. It’s—you have no memory of anyone doing that for you. Tears burn in your eyes as your vision blurs, and this time you know it’s not from your blood sugar. You open your mouth to say goodbye to Clarke, but she stops you. “Just get better. I need you to get better. I love you, okay?”

You stare at her, speechless, and wonder how she means that. The atmosphere grows tangibly tense, though you’re not sure why. But then Clarke says, “I’m just—I’m gonna—” And she leans down and kisses you. It’s soft and brief and totally awkward, but it still makes warmth bubble up inside you. “I love you. I know—I Know we can’t. Not now. But I love you. Get better, please,” she stutters. Her face is wonderfully pink.

She hurries out the door, but you call after her. “Clarke.” She pauses but doesn’t turn around. “I—I lo—I’ll get better. For you.” You can’t say what you mean; you’re not ready yet. But she knows what you didn’t say. And she turns her head enough to flash you a brilliant grin. And then she’s gone. It’s a testament to how awful you feel that you don’t dwell on what happened, but instead fall asleep right away.

 

…  
Abby follows through, as it turns out, because your endocrinologist shows up first thing Sunday morning. Before church of course, which you know because he’s wearing a tie. He never wears ties to work because they get in his way. “Hi, Lexa. Your parents said it was okay if I talked to you. I already told them what I was thinking. Do you have some time?”

“Yes.” That’s the silliest question you’ve ever heard because you’re trapped in this bed and have nothing but time, time that you’d been using to think about how Clarke kissed you. How you wanted it to happen again and how it couldn’t. So this is a welcome distraction. 

He pulls a couple of boxes out of his bag, his round glasses sliding down his nose when he bends over. At first you think it’s a new insulin pump, but then he says, “This is basically a glucose monitoring device that measures your blood sugar constantly. There’s an iPhone app called Dexcom that keeps track of it and beeps when you get too high or low.”

“I don’t have an iPhone,” you tell him. It sounds like a cool idea, but that’s kind of a problem.

“I know. I think your parents are going to get one for you as an early Christmas present. Don’t quote me on it, but they did seem pretty eager for you to not wind up in a similar position any time soon.” He pauses to gauge you to look over the device. He must think you’re against it because he rubs his bald head nervously. 

You hasten to reassure him. “How does it work?”

He fumbles in his haste to pull it out of the box. “It’s kind of like your insulin pump in that it’s connected to you all the time. This little piece stays just under your skin probably somewhere on your thigh, and this bigger piece connects to it. You can take that part off when you shower, and you’ll move the site every couple of days. Now, it’s not perfect. You’ll still have to prick your finger twice a day to calibrate it, but many people think it’s an improvement. It’s one step closer to having a machine that monitors your levels and adds insulin automatically, at any rate. I’d like to see you use it until you get your numbers under control.”

“Can I wear it when I play soccer?” It seems like that would be a bad idea. 

He hesitates. “I’d remove it while you’re playing. Seems safer.”

You agree with a nod. “Okay. I’ll try it.” At this point, ensuring you can stay out of the hospital seems like the best choice for everyone. He shows you how to get it set up. He seems pretty confident your parents will show up with a new phone for you later that day. 

“Thank you for coming in on a Sunday,” you tell him when he leaves not long after.

“Anything for my favorite patient.” He gives you a parting wave.

It turns out he’s right. Your parents do bring you a new phone and the news that you’re allowed to go home, though you have strict instructions to come back if anything seems out of the ordinary. 

Adjusting to the Dexcom takes some time. It’s horribly embarrassing when your phone chimes in the middle of class. At least your insulin pump is quieter when it’s angry. But your teachers understand, and the students are so used to you beeping at odd times that after a day or so no one mentions it. Except Anya who says, “Stop dying!” every time one of your devices makes a noise. But she does it out of love, and it makes you laugh so you don’t complain. 

 

…  
Just before Christmas, the day before break starts in fact, Clarke comes into speech class with her head down. “Hey, Clarke!” Murphy exclaims. “Did you hear the news? Your dad’s disease has even destroyed your mom. She’s resigning in disgrace from whatever job she has!”

You step in to defend Clarke, though you don’t really know what Murphy is talking about, so you aren’t totally sure how to go about doing that. But Clarke gives a slight shake of her head to stop you. “First of all,” she says, stepping right up to Murphy. “My mother didn’t resign in disgrace. It’s not resigning in disgrace if they beg you not to leave and if you have the high moral ground. Second of all, my dad isn’t sick, and my mom and I will always love him no matter who he loves.”

“So you’re saying you’re a gay lover? Or maybe you’re a gay, too,” he sneers, his face too close to hers for your comfort. 

“ENOUGH!” Ms. Indra shouts. “John Murphy, take your seat.” He tries to protest, but Ms. Indra cuts him off, “No. Right now. Since this is obviously on your minds, let’s talk about it. But we’re going to keep in mind that Clarke is a beloved student in this class. We will respect her and her family in this discussion. Understood?”

A mumbled chorus of “yes” and “yes, ma’am” and “yeah” filled the room. Clarke looks humiliated; this class is going to be torture for her, but you trust Ms. Indra. If nothing else, you understand her logic. Clarke’s foreseeable future in this school is going to be hell if nothing changes. 

“Excellent,” Ms. Indra says. “First we’re going to discuss why hurling ‘gay’ at someone as an insult is harmful not just to that person, but to millions of gay and lesbian people around the world. Would anyone like to start?”

Throughout the entire eighty minutes of class, you can’t help but be impressed. Neither you or Clarke talk. It’s not worth it for either of you. And it turns out it’s not necessary. Ms. Indra manages to somehow make it seem like students are providing their own thoughts, while guiding them to give answers that support the queer community. She even gets Murphy involved. After class, Murphy mutters an apology in Clarke’s direction. 

In Spanish, Clarke tells you in hushed tones about how her mom couldn’t take it anymore, how being a state senator ruined their family, how she can’t live in line with the way her campaign portrayed her to be. She’s not interested in protecting families from gay couples who get married. She wants to love and support Jake and Clarke, and she can’t in her current position. So she’s decided to go back to her job at the hospital full time. She’ll help people as a surgeon. 

“How do you feel about it?” you ask Clarke because that’s all that really matters to you.

“So happy,” Clarke tells you with a relieved laugh. “For the first time since this whole mess started, I feel like everything is going to be okay because the three of us are a family again. I mean, I know my parents aren’t going to get back together. But we feel like a family, and I feel…loved.” 

You nod. That’s all you needed to know. You’re proud of Abby for this because you know it couldn’t have been easy to realize what she’d dreamed of for so long is no longer her dream. And giving it up must have been humiliating, but she did it for Clarke and Jake because she protects the ones she loves. You’re happy that Clarke has her as a mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke invites you and Aden to her house for New Year’s Eve. She also tells you to invite Anya. When you ask how many people are going to be there—you always ask when you go to friend gatherings because you like to be mentally prepared—she names just a few: Raven, Octavia, Lincoln, and Bellamy. And her mom. Large crowds are hard for you, so you like that there won’t be many people attending and that you actually enjoy most of them. You’re not wild about Bellamy; it’s partially that he’s loud and annoying, but it’s mostly because he was especially mean to you in middle school. He and Clarke were the ones who turned people against you. Still, he is Octavia’s brother. It’s only fair that he’s allowed to join.

Anya picks up you and Aden around eight. “Hey, Little Aden!” she greets your little brother as you slide into the front seat and he jumps into the back. Her love for him always makes you laugh. Ever since she moved here halfway through sixth grade, she’s showered him with affection. You know she loves you too, but she’s never been as open about her affection toward you as she is with him.

“I’m taller than you are now, Anya.” Aden flicks her on the back of the ear. “So you should stop calling me little.”

Anya laughs, which you kind of can’t believe. If you had flicked her ear, she would have punched you without a second thought. “Not a chance, kid. I don’t care if you grow another foot. You’ll always be little to me.”

“Cool! I’d be seven feet tall!”

It’s weird to think that your brother has hit six feet. It’s still weird to think he’s taller than you even though he has been for years. A wave of nostalgia passes over you. Half the girls in his class are in love with him. You know that means nothing to him, but you’re glad because it will make his life easier in a lot of ways. Right now no one would dare pick on him because you’re there to protect him, but after you graduate? The fact that girls hang all over him means no one will pick on him then either.

When Anya pulls smoothly into a spot on the grass next to Raven’s car, Aden hops out and sprints into the house. You’d chide him, but at least he remembered to grab the brownies Clarke had asked you to bring. You and Anya can easily carry the crackers and cheese ball and chips and dip. Getting out of the car poses to be more of a problem than you anticipated. Suddenly you’re nervous, palm sweating, stomach churning nervous. You haven’t seen Clarke much since she kissed you, and almost every time you have, you’ve felt crazy awkward. So you pause with your hand on the door handle.

Anya notices. “Not coming?”

“No. I am. I just—” You break off, not really sure how to finish that sentence. 

Anya hesitates for a moment, then puts a surprisingly gentle hand on your arm. You know she’s serious because it takes a lot of courage for her to touch anyone. It’s something she talks about on rare occasions, especially when her mom is going through a particularly rough time. Then, Anya will go for months without physical contact unless one of her friends is brave enough to hug her. It’s not that she doesn’t like it; she just doesn’t know how to initiate it. But today, today she reaches out. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’ll still be here no matter what you say.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Anya is safe, you remind yourself. You can trust her. “When I was in the hospital, Clarke kissed me.”

“Shit! No way!” Anya punches your shoulder in excitement. “Lex! Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug. Honestly? You didn’t know how because you were a little afraid of her reaction, but you don’t think Anya will like to hear that. So you just ignore that question. “Yeah, and we haven’t talked about it. And I just—love her.” 

You’re not sure which one of you is more surprised at your admission. You’ve stunned yourself into silence, and Anya just blinks at you, or, you think she does. It’s hard to tell because the car is pretty dark. Then she starts laughing. 

“What?” you demand. You essentially came out to her, and she is laughing at you? Maybe you were wrong to trust her. Maybe you should keep your mouth shut and never tell anyone again.

“I’m sorry,” she manages through gasps of laughter, but once she catches sight of your face, she sobers immediately. “I’m so sorry. It’s just…oh my God, Lex. You’re hopelessly gay.”

You’re not quite sure how Anya means that. There isn’t any of the disgust that you weren’t expecting, but that you were afraid of. At the same time, there isn’t any overwhelming approval either, unless her laughter is a signal of her approval? It’s all very unclear and disconcerting, and you don’t know how to respond, so you don’t say anything. You try to muster the courage, but you can’t quite manage to look at her. 

“It’s okay, Lex,” Anya says softly. Your discomfort must be obvious because she’s usually bad at picking up on and identifying other people’s emotions. “Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me. I know—I know it’s something you’ve been struggling with for a while. I wasn’t laughing at you because you’re gay. That’s not funny. It’s not bad, but it’s not funny because it must really suck to be gay in this town.”

Her words quell some of your concerns, enough for you to smile at her anyway. But it’s not enough for you to be completely certain. “Really?” you force yourself to ask.

“Yeah. I know this is a shit area to grow up gay, but I don’t care about that. My mom didn’t drag me to church like your parents did, so it hasn’t been drilled into my head that it’s wrong like it has for most people we know. Anyway, it doesn’t change anything for me that you’re gay.”

That’s even more reassuring. Except… “Then why did you laugh?” 

“Because it’s New Year’s Eve, we’re headed to a party, and all you can think about is how to act around a girl you’re in love with even though she’s obviously in love with you too.” Anya rests her head against her steering wheel and lets out an easy laugh. “You’ve been pining over her forever, she kisses you, and you’re still pining. Hopelessly gay.”

You can’t help but smile bashfully and blush at Anya’s analysis. “She told me she loved me,” you admit, more comfortable with talking about this now. “When I was in the hospital she didn’t just kiss me; she told me she loved me.”

Anya’s breath hitches, but she manages to stop herself before she starts laughing again. “So why exactly are you worried?”

That’s a question you’re not sure how to answer because you don’t know why you’re feeling out of sorts. Clarke loves you, and you love her. She’s kissed you, and you liked it and want it to happen again. And yet, for some reason, you can’t make yourself get out of this car. Maybe you’ll just make it your new home. You doubt Anya would mind, though she is still waiting for your answer, so it’s probably not your best option. Not to mention the car leaks, so it smells like mildew most of the time. “I don’t know. I guess...it can’t go anywhere, and I don’t know how to tell her that.” It’s not the whole of it, but it’s a start.

“Well, what do you want?”

That’s a question you can answer because you’ve thought about it a lot. “I don’t want to date her now. It would be bad for both of us if people found out, and I don’t want to have to hide our relationship.”

“That’s what you don’t want, but what do you want?”

“I want to wait until we go to college.”

Anya squints at you, like she’s debating whether or not to respond to you. She caves. “That’s kind of a lot to ask of her. And…it’s kind of a lot to ask of yourself.”

“I know.” You do. You’ve thought about it. “But she doesn’t have to agree. I would be…sad, I guess, but I would understand. I think…I think if we’re meant to be together, it will work out.”

You think Anya tries to hold back a snort, but she fails dramatically. “See? Hopelessly gay.” You shove her, not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough for her to accidentally tap the horn. “Anyway,” she says, back on track. “You need to talk to her. It’s not fair to either of you for you to keep putting off this conversation.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Anya pauses for a moment, then says, “So…can we go inside now? Or are we bringing in the New Year in a 1998 Honda Civic with an ice rink on the floor of the back seat? Fucking rain followed by a cold front.” She spits out the curse with a glance over her shoulder where the pool of water had frozen over.

You laugh and wrinkle your nose. Now that you’re thinking about it, Anya’s car is really, really gross. “We can go in.” The two of you gather up the food and head to the party. 

Everyone’s already there, and they wave halfheartedly in your direction, but it’s clear that their attention is on whatever videogame they’re playing. From the quick glance you catch, it seems like Aden is somehow already winning. That kid is amazing at videogames even though you’re not allowed to have them at home. Clarke intercepts the two of you immediately. “Hey! Let me show you where the food is.” She leads you up the stairs away from all of the guests. “Everyone’s hanging out down here because that’s where the TV is, but my mom wanted us to keep the food upstairs. She said it was safer because Bellamy, Octavia, and Raven have a tendency to be destructive. One food fight too many, I guess.”

“Where is your mom?” Anya asks curiously.

“She’s hanging out in her room. This the first year since…well, everything. I think she doesn’t really want to celebrate.”

Anya nods and kind of bumps Clarke’s shoulder in camaraderie. It’s quite the night for her and physical contact. “Makes sense.”

Clarke is talking to both of you, but Anya is the only one of you who is responding to her. You’re basking in awkwardness because you do not have the ability to function around people, especially beautiful girls you’re in love with. You’re feeling almost too awkward to pay attention, but you still catch the glance Clarke and Anya share. 

“Anywaaaay, I’m gonna go so you two can talk,” Anya says with a meaningful look at you when Clarke doesn’t respond. 

She heads down the stairs, so you and Clarke can stare at each other because that’s all either of you is capable of. This is going to be an uncomfortable conversation, but Clarke is gorgeous, and she smells really good. Her sweater hugs her shoulders and dips low enough to show a bit of her cleavage. That is distracting, but it’s not the whole of what is preventing you from speaking. Her hair is curled, so that it falls in gentle waves to rest at the top of her shoulders. And her eyes! How are you supposed to pay attention to anything? Her eyes are perfectly lined and…mascaraed? Is that a verb? But they’re open wide, like she’s excited or maybe nervous. The more you stare, the more certain you are it’s nerves.

You can’t let her suffer, so you raise the corner of your mouth in a half hearted attempt at a smile. “Hi.” It’s lame, admittedly, but it’s something.

“Hi.” Her smile is equally tremulous, but hers at least seems more genuine. “You look really nice tonight.”

You glance down at your flannel shirt and skinny jeans. “Not as good as you.” Clarke laughs, which gives you the confidence to address the topic you’ve both been avoiding. “Can I—can I tell you what I’ve been thinking?”

Clarke inhales sharply, clearly afraid of what you’re going to say, but she gestures for you to proceed anyway. “Please.”

“We haven’t really talked since…since you—since I was in the hospital. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.” You pause and take a deep breath for courage. “I couldn’t…um…respond before when you told me you loved me. I meant to, but I just…couldn’t. I was afraid, but since then I’ve thought a lot about it. I can say it now. I love me, too.” That sounds wrong, so you run that last phrase back through your mind. “I mean I love you, too,” you correct hurriedly. Despite the mistake, you’re actually proud of yourself for saying what you intended to. At least…until Clarke bursts into laughter. Then you realize just how bad the mistake was. And you drop to the floor and cover your head with your arms. Your whole body is burning from embarrassment. It’s so bad that you don’t even mind the way your phone is jabbing into your hip. 

Clarke collapses beside you when her legs give out from laughing so hard. “I love me, too,” she repeats through gales of laughter. “Oh my God, Lexa, I’m never going to let you live that down,” she says once she’s calmed down enough to talk. 

You groan in response. You know she’s telling the truth. And you don’t deserve to live it down because that was possibly the worst declaration of love ever. After several minutes of Clarke poking you in the side, you finally emerge. All of the skin you can see, from her hands to her chest and neck to her face and even her ears, is bright red. You can only imagine how much worse you must look. “Ugh. I hate myself.”

“No.” Clarke lets out an undignified snort. “You love yourself.” 

You groan again, but you have to admit you set yourself up for that one. “And you,” you say softly, finally sitting up.

“What?” Clarke mirrors your position.

“I love you, too. That’s what I meant to say. I wasn’t feeling well when I was in the hospital, so I was caught off guard. But I’ve thought about it, and I love you too.”

Clarke is examining your face for answers, and whatever she finds seems to be not to her liking. She momentarily deflates, but then squares her shoulders like she’ll take this bravely, whatever you tell her. “But? I’m assuming there’s a but.”

You nod. “But we can’t date right now. We’d have to hide it, and I think we both know that we’d get caught. And it would be really bad. My dad—my dad would kick me out, and I don’t know if my mom would stop him.”

Clarke breaks into your monologue. “You could stay here.”

“No. No. I couldn’t leave Aden. He’s—no. I couldn’t. And it wouldn’t solve school. Ms. Indra is nice, but most teachers would join in with the students in tormenting us. It won’t work. You know it won’t.”

“I know.” Clarke heaves out a disappointed breath and steps close to you to take your hands in hers. “I know all of this. So that’s it? I guess we’ll just be friends?”

It’s tempting to agree with Clarke, to go along with it. It would be easier than potentially getting turned down, but Clarke was brave so you can be too. “Or…”

“Or?”

“We could start dating when we go to college.” Clarke’s shocked face leads you to clarify. “You don’t have to agree. It’s okay if that’s too much to ask. You don’t have to wait. We can just be friends. Let’s just be friends.” Why are you so bad at this? It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to Clarke about this; you should at least be able to get your point across without rambling like a fool. But she smells really, really good. Like homemade cookies. God, Anya’s right. You are hopelessly gay.

Clarke blinks slowly three times. Then she opens her mouth and closes it again. Then she cocks her head and nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Your heart sinks into your stomach, but you bite your lip and nod anyway. You pull your hands away from hers. You gave Clarke a choice, and you won’t punish her for choosing what she wants. “Okay. We can be friends.”

“What? No!” Clarke sounds panicked. “I meant we can wait until college. I mean, we can still be friends in the meantime, but I meant it when I said I loved you. I’ll—I’ll wait. It’s—it’ll be hard, but if that’s what it takes for us to be together, I’ll do it.”

“Really?” you ask in disbelief. “You’re okay with living in a state of abeyance until college?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow at you. “Abeyance? Throwing vocab words at me now, smarty pants?” You shrug sheepishly. “I mean, it will be hard because I’m going to want to kiss you every time I see you, and like, prom and stuff will suck if I can’t go with you, but you’re right. We don’t have another option right now.”

You hear her and understand her words, but it’s hard for you to process them on an emotional level. You love a girl and want to be with her, and and she wants to be with you too? It doesn’t seem real. The same feelings you have for her, she has for you? And she’s willing to wait a year and a half to be able to date you? Amazing. 

“You okay?” Clarke asks gently. She looks like she wants to touch you but isn’t sure if she’s allowed. “You look weird.”

That breaks your spell of disbelief, and you burst into laughter. “Thanks.”

Clarke laughs too, thankfully. “I just meant you looked all serious and introspective.”

“Yes, well, you you just agreed to be single until after you graduate just so you can date me. Forgive me if I’m a bit taken aback.”

Clarke leans close to you, close enough that you think she might kiss you, but then she shoves you in the shoulder playfully. “Oh, I didn’t agree to be single. I just figure this is my last chance to get around before I settle down with you. See if I can find someone better.” 

Is this flirting? You think it is, but it doesn’t really matter because it’s an opportunity to poke fun at her, so you’ll take it. “Um, Clarke, I hate to tell you this, but you’re not going to find anyone better than me. When we start dating, I’ll pretty much be scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Oooohhh! You’ve wounded me!” She falls dramatically onto her back, clutching her chest. 

For about three seconds, you’re worried you actually hurt her feelings, but then you notice her shoulders are shaking with laughter. You scramble to your feet and then heave her up as well. “I love you,” you say softly, pulling her into a hug.

“I love you, too,” she says back. “Do you—do you mind if I kiss you?”

“No.”

And she touches her lips to yours. Your second kiss is longer and less awkward than the first, but that’s not saying all that much. You still feel warm and tingly, but mostly you just feel safe. With Clarke you feel like you belong, like you’ve finally found the place of safety you’ve been searching for for years. You think you’d kiss her forever if she’d let you (she probably would), but your Dexcom app beeps loudly because your blood sugar is kind of low, and you pull you apart. Besides, you both have to get back to the party. 

You spend most of the evening with Aden and Anya, but you and Clarke keep glancing at each other. And at midnight, she pulls you into the mudroom and kisses you with a quiet, “I wanted to start the year right.”

It’s cliché and perfect, and you love her. But Clarke has kissed you twice tonight, and you’re not really sure where that leaves the two of you. You leave her house around two in the morning feeling very confused. 

 

…  
A couple of weeks later, your parents are both out for the evening. Your dad has some event at his school district, and he convinced your mom to go with him. You and Aden are sprawled out on your bed watching a movie. It’s funny. Most days you fight incessantly, but sometimes he is so loveable and sweet.

“Lex?” He’s tracing a pattern on your quilt with his finger, avoiding all eye contact with you.

“Hmmm?” You debate whether or not to pause the movie, but decide some background noise might be comforting to him since he seems uncomfortable and didn’t pause it himself. 

“Do you ever feel guilty because you’re…you know…gay? Like, every time you see someone and think they’re hot, you’re sinning and God is mad at you? I mean, do you think being gay is a sin?”

That’s a hard question, not least because you don’t really feel guilt ever. It’s part of growing up with a dad who tries to make you feel guilty for everything; you learn not to feel it because it will just be used against you. But that won’t help your little brother who isn’t similarly afflicted and desperately seems to want some absolution from what others perceive to be sin. “I don’t think it’s a sin,” you tell him. “It’s— hard to explain this. I’m probably going to mess it up.”

“Can you try?” He’s looking at you now with pleading eyes you can’t ignore.

So you sigh and try again. “I don’t really feel God’s love,” you admit. “I never have. I don’t feel anything from God, no matter how hard I try. But you know how people talk about being connected to something bigger than yourself, and how they say you can feel your heart growing bigger?” Aden shrugs noncommittally and then nods when you poke him. “That’s how Clarke makes me feel. I mean, I have a hard time feeling anything at all about God or religion in general, but the way I feel about Clarke seems to fit in with how they explain it. It’s like—it’s like by loving Clarke, I’m participating in loving God. I don’t know. That probably didn’t make any sense.”

Aden leans back against your pillows. He’s quiet for awhile, so you take the time to really look him over. He’s thinner than he used to be. Ever since his growth spurt, his whole body has stretched out. And even though they’re too short, he still wears his favorite red pajama pants that have moose all over them. Life has dramatically improved from his middle school days when he hadn’t quite learned about deodorant and then discovered Axe body spray. Thankfully he moved on to normal amounts of stick deodorant. You think he looks a bit defeated right now, but that might just be based on the question he asked you. Finally, he sighs and says, “That kind of makes sense, I guess. But everyone we know says it’s a sin. They say it’s in the Bible, and we’re going to hell. Are they wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, immediately even though your thoughts aren’t quite gathered. Aden needs to know you’re certain because you are more certain about this than anything. “Being gay isn’t a choice. God made us this way, and God doesn’t make mistakes. Everyone we know says that too.”

“Yeah, but we can be celibate for the rest of our lives,” Aden says, citing a common argument you’ve often heard from the more liberal among the people in your church, the ones who are willing to admit gay people aren’t inherently sinful—the ones who love the sinner and hate the sin. Whatever the hell that means. 

You pause to think about that. It’s an argument that’s always bothered you, but until now you haven’t had to articulate why. “That’s a garbage position. When people say that, they’re denying a part of us, a part that God made, and they’re trying to make us deny it too. I think they’re the ones who are sinning because they’re essentially forcing us into the closet. They won’t let us be the people God created us to be. I think that’s what grace is.”

“So grace is being who God created us to be?” Aden clarifies. 

“I think so. And I think sin is not being who God created us to be. I was created to love women, and you were created to love men. And we should be allowed to live that.”

Aden sighs, and you can feel him relax beside you. The dialogue from whatever action movie Aden decided the two of you were going to watch drones on in the background. “So it’s okay if I want to act gay sometimes?”

That’s a complex question, one that makes your heart rate skyrocket and panic well up inside you. As much as you want to tell him an unequivocal ‘yes,’ you know you can’t because it’s not safe. “Sometimes,” you say softly. It’s devastating, really, that he can’t always be himself. “Around the people you’re certain won’t out you.”

A sneaky smile crosses his face. “So…if I said I didn’t really want to watch this stupid movie and wanted to watch ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ instead, you’d let me? I can’t watch it alone because Dad might find out.”

You stare at him, stunned by this change of direction. “Oh my God,” is all you can say.

“Hey, you’re one of the only people who know about me, and I really, really want to watch it! No one will question you if you watch ‘Grey’s.’” He’s cackling now. You know his earlier questions were genuine, and you know this change of direction is because he can’t handle the seriousness anymore. And also a little because he’s devious. 

“Ugh, fine.” 

You hate that show with a passion…or you hate what you’ve heard about it from girls at school. It sounds stupid and unnecessarily dramatic, but the action movie is boring you both, so you might as well watch something interesting to at least one of you. Plus, if this is how Aden wants to act gay (whatever that means and whatever that has to do with a TV show), then you’ll give him that freedom. 

 

…  
A few weeks later, you take your test to get your license. When you pass, you can’t keep the smile from lighting up your face even though it’s ruining your usual stoic demeanor and even though your dad’s there. You just can’t help it. When you follow the instructor back inside the DMV, your dad actually pats you on your shoulder and tells you he’s proud of you. 

The bored lady behind the desk has you fill out some paperwork. You’re sure she doesn’t care, but your dad starts bragging to her about you. He tells her how you’ve always been the youngest in your class and still have the top grades. And how you walked at eight months and spoke in full sentences before your first birthday. 

“You must be very proud,” the middle aged woman says in a tired voice, not even looking at him. She must hear the same kinds of stuff all day every day. 

You’d appreciate your dad’s words because you know he means them, but you also know he only means them temporarily. Next week, tomorrow, or even an hour from now, he’ll say something that undermines them. Still, you smile widely for your picture, and turn your license over and over in your hands the whole way home. 

Except, when you look up after the car stops, you realize you’re not home. You’re parked outside of an office building. “Where are we?”

Your dad actually fidgets uncomfortably. It’s rare, unbelievably rare, that he shows anything less than confidence or arrogance. “We’re at counseling.”

It takes you a few seconds for all of the pieces to fall together. Abby was wrong. There was recourse to you talking to the social worker. “Oh.” If only you hadn’t been half out of your mind when you were sick, you would have kept your mouth shut, and you wouldn’t be in this situation. 

You slide your license into your wallet and follow your dad inside. What else can you do? The beep of the car locking feels like the sealing of your fate. Neither of you says anything in the waiting room, and you thank God when the counselor takes you back by yourself. There’s no way you could talk to her in front of him.

The counselor is…not someone with whom you’re immediately comfortable. She stares too much at you without blinking. People’s eyes hurt you sometimes. But she listens to your story without asking too many questions, which you appreciate. After you finish, she looks down at her notes and then back at you in confusion.

“I was told you and your dad were having some normal tension, but, to be honest with you, it sounds like I don’t need to talk to you. I need to talk to him,” she says. 

You let out a long breath of relief. It hadn’t occurred to you before now that you might actually win this fight against your dad. And it is a fight. You’ve been waging a very lopsided war with your dad for years. Most of the time, you know you’ll lose, so you pick your battles and fight when you can. Like when you do laundry, you don’t do your dad’s. He’ll probably never know, but it makes you feel better. But now, for some unknown reason, you have the upper hand. 

It’s your dad’s turn next, so you work on some homework in the waiting room. On the way home, your dad doesn’t say a word to you. In fact, he doesn’t say more than absolutely necessary to you for the next two years. You find out years and years later that the counselor told him that if he didn’t change, he would lose you and Aden forever. So his solution was to stop talking to you both. And, ironically, even though you know your dad means his silence to be a passive aggressive punishment for telling someone how he treats you, it’s the best thing you could have hoped for. It gives you the space to breathe. 

 

…  
In late February, you’re sitting in a stairwell at school during study hall. It’s between sports seasons, so you have a lot more time for things like this now. Your study hall teacher had given you permission to make a few calls to set up volunteer opportunities. The people in the club have been talking recently about serving meals at a local soup kitchen, so you call the organization to see if they would be interested in having several teenage helpers two Saturday evenings per month. You’ve worked with them in the past, and they actually remember you when you introduce yourself. It always makes you feel like an adult when professionals treat you with respect and at least act like they’re excited to have your club back. They tell you they don’t normally work with high schoolers, but that your group was so well-behaved they are happy to make an exception. You feel proud of what this club has grown into. 

When you hang up, you don’t stand up just yet. You decide to bask in the feeling of a successful phone call a little longer. Phone calls are hard and give you a lot of anxiety, but when they go well, you get the aftermath of adrenaline and relief. It’s a little like how you feel after a race, but without actually having to do any exercise. The slight buzz wears off, and you’re just about to head back to class when someone enters the stairwell. 

“I don’t know, Linc. There’s something weird going on.” You freeze halfway to your feet, one hand wrapped around a stair rung. It’s Octavia and Lincoln. You quickly retract your hand. At least you’re hidden behind the stairs, so they can’t see you. You like Lincoln a lot, but Octavia is sometimes a lot to handle. She was one of the ones who wasn’t especially kind to you in middle school, though Clarke swears she has grown out of that stage; even back then, she was just following Bellamy’s lead. You sort of believe Clarke because Octavia’s dating Lincoln who is one of the sweetest people you’ve ever known. He wouldn’t associate so closely with someone who is hateful.

“What do you mean?” Lincoln asks. They’re just standing inside the stairwell. You wonder how long you’re going to be stuck here and how private this conversation is that you’re now officially eavesdropping on. It’s a little too late to reveal yourself now, though. 

You hear Octavia sigh. “Clarke. She’s…I don’t know. Do you think she’s queer?”

When Octavia uses that word, you don’t even hesitate. You jump up and slam her against the wall. It’s a risky move. You have no idea if you could take her in a fight if it came to that, but you will defend Clarke until your dying breath. “Don’t ever call her that again,” you growl, your voice low and menacing. 

Octavia looks stunned. That’s not surprising. She didn’t know anyone was there, and now someone she’s barely talked to has physically assaulted her. “Uhh…” she manages, her eyes wide.

“Shut up!” Blood rushes in your ears. In the back of your mind, you wonder what would happen if a teacher walked into the stairwell at this moment, but that’s not what’s important. “Keep your filthy words to yourself. How dare you use that word against Clarke. How can you call yourself her friend? How would she feel if you knew what you were calling her behind her back?”

“Lexa,” Lincoln interrupts, his voice soft. He touches the small of your back gently, a calming presence. Your hand loosens its grasp on Octavia’s sweatshirt, but you don’t let go or step away. “Come on, Lexa. Let her go. It’s not worth it.”

You’re not even really sure why, but you listen to him. All of the adrenaline you’d felt, the second rush in as many minutes, starts to dissipate, and you just feel tired. Without the texture of worn cotton clenched in your fist, you’re finding it hard to focus on anything. You adjust your ponytail and massage your forehead with the back of your hand. “Why would you say those things?” you ask Octavia. Without anger, you just feel dejected. It is too much like what happened to you in middle school, but now it’s happening to the girl you love. 

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she says slowly like she’s trying to calm a wild animal. She seems to have recovered from her shock, at least enough to put a hand on your shoulder, which you shrug away from. Octavia is respectful enough that she doesn’t seem offended by the way you rebuff her. “Queer isn’t a bad word, you know.”

That’s…weird and doesn’t really make sense. You’ve heard it used in a neutral sense to describe a community, but never to describe a person. That’s always been a terrible insult. “I’m pretty sure it is,” you say, defensively. “People use it as an insult all the time.” 

Octavia glances at Lincoln. His face twists with indecision for some reason, but then he relaxes and nods. She guides both of you back the the corner you’d jumped out from minutes before. “Yeah. People use it as a slur, but the community has reclaimed it. It’s a really good way to explain an identity that doesn’t quite fit into the LGBT. And, like, it’s easier than reciting a list of letters every time you want to talk about someone or something that isn’t straight and cis, especially when the way someone identifies might not be part of the list of letters.”

“Cis?” you ask.

“Cisgender,” she corrects herself. “It’s like…when a person’s gender matches the sex they were assigned at birth.”

“Oh.” You sink down to the ground. This is all so new to you. Your mind is spinning as you try to process it all. But the main question that you can’t quite shake, the one that keeps coming back to you is: how does Octavia know all of this? You’re gay, and you don’t know any of it. Maybe Clarke does, but she’s never mentioned anything about it. So how does Octavia know?

Octavia seems to sense your confusion and curiosity, and so does Lincoln. He crouches next to you. “I’m non-binary,” he says abruptly. Thankfully he explains what that means because you’re not really sure. He’s so, so good for not making you ask, even though this must be terrifying for him. “I’m not a boy or a girl.”

You’ve heard of that before, mostly when people talk about it derisively, like it’s not a real thing. It’s not something you’ve given much thought to before now. You want to support him in any way you can since he had the courage to come out to you. “What should I call you?” It’s the only entirely non-offensive question you can think to ask…or at least, you hope it isn’t offensive. 

Lincoln lets out a relieved laugh at your reaction and adjusts the baseball cap that he always wears backward on his head. “I’m okay with he/him pronouns and ‘Lincoln’ for now. Maybe someday that will change, but right now…”

“Right now you’re just surviving,” you say with a long sigh. You play with the frayed cuff of your jeans. “I know what that’s like.” It slips out before you can stop it, but really, it doesn’t occur to you to try. His secret could ruin his life if it got out, just like your secret would ruin yours. So you can trust him. You know you can. 

“Yeah?” he smiles gently at you, giving you the chance to share.

It’s still scary, so you take a deep breath and say, “Yeah. I’m gay. It’s—it’s not the same, I know, but they both…”

“Kinda suck to be around here?” he finishes. He’s so, so kind. 

“Exactly.” You both laugh. Then you start thinking and realize you aren’t as sure you can trust him as you initially thought. What if Lincoln is lying? What if Clarke is lying? What if this is all an elaborate setup to get you to out yourself? That sounds like something your dad would say. You’re certain…well, you’re wildly uncertain but at least relatively sure that it’s not the case. But you need to make sure. “Can you guys—can you guys not tell anyone about this? Clarke, Anya, and Aden know, but no one else. I don’t—I can’t have anyone else know right now.”

They both nod solemnly at you. “Of course,” Lincoln says. “I won’t out you. And I hope you won’t out me either? My parents and Octavia have been supportive, but I don’t think too many others would be.”

“Okay.” That’s really all you can say. You would never out him. 

Octavia steps forward then to place a hand on Lincoln’s head. He almost falls over, but readjusts and manages to catch his balance. He glares up at her, but it doesn’t take long before they’re smiling lovingly at one another. “So anyway, I wasn’t insulting Clarke. You’re right that I really shouldn’t have been talking about it, especially not in this hell hole. But I didn’t want to call her gay if she identifies as something else, so ‘queer’ was my way of doing that.” 

This conversation is going much, much differently than you thought it would when you attacked Octavia. “Maybe talk to Clarke about it? Or just give her a chance to talk to you? Lincoln, you could tell her about you if you wanted. I know she’d be supportive.”

Lincoln blushes and nods. “Maybe I will. I haven’t really told anyone but Octavia and my mom and dad yet. If people found out, it would make being one of the only black kids in school so much worse. And it’s already really bad. The thought of making it worse…it’s—it’s scary.”

You nod in understanding. “Yes. It is. It’s scary for me, and I’m white.” You glance up at Octavia, shamefaced. “I’m sorry for shoving you against the wall.” 

Octavia extends her hand to help you up, a peace-offering. You consider it for a moment—you still don’t feel entirely comfortable with physical contact—but you ultimately place your hand in hers because she’s being generous. You touch for only a few seconds, but it’s long enough that you feel the callouses on her palms, and you remember she lifts with Lincoln. Now you’re even more relieved she didn’t fight back because you really don’t know if you could have won.

“That’s okay. You were defending someone you care about. I’d have done the same.” You meet her eyes, expecting to see a friendly smile; it looks more like she’s fiercely bearing her teeth. Octavia’s heart might be in a better place now, but she’s still scary.

The three of you disperse. Lincoln and Octavia trudge up the stairs; you’re not really sure where they’re headed, but they didn’t ask you why you were hiding in the stairwell, so you don’t bother them. By now you can’t put off going back to class any longer. Your teacher probably won’t question you, but at the same time, it’s not something you want to risk. The secret to getting away with things is staying well within the rules most of the time. You’d already bent the rules a bit by making this phone call during school hours, and pushing it further is not worth it. 

However, you take your time getting back to class because you need a few minutes to process what happened. Of all the people you would have thought were…queer—you turn that word over in your mind for the first time—you would never have guessed Lincoln. Is everyone in your school queer? So far there’s you, Aden, Clarke, and Lincoln. That’s a large part of your friend group. Maybe it’s because you somehow all know about each other on a subconscious level. Maybe you’re all affected by some magnetic force that brought you all together for protection and belonging. 

 

…  
In early April, your youth group has a bowling night. Your mom tells you it will be good for you to go. You vehemently disagree because your youth group and its leaders are extremely conservative. They’re also weird. But the vague and less than eloquent (for obvious reasons) argument about why you shouldn’t have to go that you pose to your mom is less than convincing. To appease you, she tells you to invite friends. 

That’s how you end up begging Clarke and Anya to come with you. You ask Anya first.

“Hell no,” she says, laughing at your audacity. “I’m not going bowling with a bunch of church weirdos. And I’m especially not wasting five dollars that I don’t have on something so stupid that I don’t want to do.”

“I’ll pay for you,” you say immediately. Then you hedge off her protest about accepting charity. “I know exactly how awful this is going to be, and I wouldn’t make you pay for it no matter how much money you had. Please come?”

You allow a bit of panic to seep into your voice. It’s only mildly manipulative. The prospect of this gathering truly does make you uncomfortable. 

“Fine.” She lets out a huff. “But only if you ask Clarke to come too.”

“Why?” You actually gasp at that demand. You want Clarke as far away from these people as possible. 

Anya puts a hand on your shoulder like she’s about to say something profound and serious. Instead, she says, “Because I think it will be funny.” And then she laughs at her own joke. “But also because I think she needs to know where you come from. Anyway, the reason doesn’t matter. It’s my condition.”

“Whatever.”

Clarke agrees more readily than Anya. She even insists that you sleep over at her house after, provided you get permission from your mom. 

So that’s how you, Anya, Clarke, and Aden end up at a bowling alley with a group of ten other youth group kids. And that’s how you remember you’re possibly the worst bowler to ever exist. Every time it’s your turn, everyone at your lane howls with laughter. You really shouldn’t be that bad. You’re not uncoordinated or particularly weak, but for some reason, you just can’t get the hang of it. 

Clarke, on the other hand, dominates (“I figure since I suck at every other sport, I have to be good at one,” she says nonchalantly). You can’t take your eyes off of her the whole night. Even when she goes to the bathroom and then grabs a soda from the concession, you know exactly where she is. 

It prompts Anya to lean close to you and mutter, “You’ve gotta stop with the hearteyes, Hopeless.” 

“Hopeless?” Nia, a girl playing with your group, turns around in her seat to ask.

Anya opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to come up with a reason for why she called you that. “Uh…yeah. Lexa’s really hopeless at bowling.”

You both hold your breath, hoping Nia hadn’t heard the first part of what Anya had said. Nia has made a number of homophobic comments in the past, and she’s not someone you want to have your secret. Thankfully, she laughs. “That’s great! I’m changing her name!” And she changes your name from “Lexa” to “Hopeless” in the system.

It works as well as Anya’s warning. Every time you look at the screen, you’re reminded that you’re hopelessly gay and need to watch yourself. The night is harder than you expected. You hadn’t anticipated being unable to look away from Clarke. You also hadn’t anticipated the half hour meeting where the leaders tell you all that the next series the youth group will be doing is on sex. And then proceed to ask the group what they know (abstinence, heterosexual relationships only, and marriage just about sums up the knowledge the kids have. The leaders are pleased). 

“Well that was just fascinating,” Anya states flatly as the four of you climb in her car. 

Aden laughs. “Extremely. This series will be very enlightening for Clarke, Lexa, and me.”

You roll your eyes and poke him in the back of the head—he’d gotten shotgun. “Shut up or I’ll tell mom you need to go more often.” It’s an empty threat; you both know it. So he just cackles more at you. Then you notice Clarke is quiet. “You okay?”

She smiles at you, but it’s fleeting and her eyes are a little unfocused, so you know she’s distracted. “Fine. Just tired.”

All three of you know she means it in more than one way. It’s one of those rare moments when everything in the universe falls into place. You, Anya, and Aden meet each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and say in unison, “Amen!”

That night, Clarke cuddles with you on the couch while you watch a movie. You’re not really sure why, but you know she needs it, so when she lies next to you and puts her head on your chest, you hold her tightly. “Aden’s gay?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Clarke nods against you, and you both fall asleep. Just after midnight, Abby comes home from work, shakes you both awake, and hustles you to bed. You retreat to your cot, but you and Clarke fall asleep holding hands. 

 

…  
Mother’s Day is always a difficult day for Anya, just like Father’s Day is for you. Back in sixth grade, the Friday before Mother’s Day, your English teacher had your class write poems for your maternal figures. You didn’t really know Anya very well, but you noticed her hand shaking as she attempted to compose something. After a few minutes, she dropped her head on her desk. 

You’d quickly written something generic and slid the paper onto her desk. At that point, you’d hesitated. Anya was new to the school, so she didn’t have any friends, and several of yours had all but abandoned you. So you rushed to write out a single line on another piece of notebook paper: “Would you like to sit with me at lunch?”

She’d turned around and nodded. At lunch she told you that her mom drank and that she had to take care of her. Mother’s Day just reminded her of everything she would never have. You brought her a yellow rose the next Monday and said, “I’m sorry your mom isn’t what you need.”

And thus began your tradition. This year is no different…until it is. You track Anya down in the cafeteria before school and hand her her yellow rose, but instead of a sad smile, she grins brilliantly at you through a mouthful of pancakes. It’s uncharacteristic for her even on a good day. Normally she’s embarrassed that she gets free breakfast and scowls anytime someone approaches her while she’s eating.

“Why do you look so happy?” you ask, bewildered. 

“I didn’t realize you were the happy police.” But Anya’s voice lacks the normal bite, and her insult is far from clever. You can’t help the snort of amusement that escapes, though you try valiantly to hold it in. Even if you hate that you gave Anya the satisfaction by laughing, it seems to mollify her. “But anyway, you know what happened to Raven’s leg, right? She told you?” 

“Yes.” You’re a little surprised to hear that Raven talked to her, and you’re also not entirely sure why this relates to her own happiness. 

Anya nods. “Cool. She mentioned she told you. She cornered me last week and told me her story. I told her about my mom. So she and her mom came over on Sunday. My mom was…she was actually sober for once. And she made dinner. Real dinner. Like Nepalese dinner.” Anya laughs and runs a hand over her face. “We all ate dinner together, and afterward, my mom and hers talked. I couldn’t really hear what they were saying because Raven and I were playing video games in the living room. What I could hear was hilarious since neither one of our moms is great with English. But later that night my mom told me she was going to join Raven’s mom’s support group. She’s going to get help. I’ve just—I’ve wanted this for so long, and now it’s happening. My mom is going to get help.”

“That’s fantastic, Anya!” You place the rose on the table beside her so you can tug her to her feet and hug her. She smells like syrup, and her hands are rather sticky, and she tries to resist at first, but you don’t mind. You just hang on until she gives in because she can’t hold back her excitement any longer. There are maybe three people in the cafeteria who can bear witness to it, but she hugs you back and squeals into your shoulder. 

 

…  
You go with the volunteer club to the soup kitchen for the last trip that school year, but you’re the only one of the leaders. It’s mostly underclassmen who signed up. That’s great and very exciting for the future of the club; you just wish Anya or someone else you know well could have come as well. The event goes well. There’s only enough space for a few people, so you hang out in the background and let the club members do most of the work. 

You chat with Vincent, the man whom you orchestrated this night with. He tells you again how impressed he is with your club. Apparently they never allow teenagers to volunteer without a supervising adult present, but your club is the exception. In fact, he says it’s mostly to do with you. He even tries to talk you into working with him over the summer. There’s almost no chance that that’s a realistic possibility for you, but you’re still flying pretty high on his compliments when it’s time to go.

It’s pouring outside. For some reason you weren’t expecting the deluge of rain to soak your shoulders and run down the back of your neck just moments after you step out from the protection of the overhang. You also definitely weren’t expecting Abby Griffin to call your name. “Lexa! Over here!”

She’s leaning out the car window, braving the rain just to get your attention, so you run over to her. You probably should have watched where you were going because you accidentally stomp in the middle of a puddle. Drenched shoes and socks were not something you were prepared for. “Hi,” you say cautiously, as you hurry into the passenger’s seat.

“I’m your ride,” she says, clarifying your confusion about why she’s there. You’d thought Clarke was supposed to pick you up since you don’t have a car, and you are sleeping over. “Clarke got caught in her art class, and she texted me in a panic, so I swung by to get you after I got off my shift at the hospital.”

That more or less answers all of your questions, so you nod. “Thank you,” you say as you buckle your seatbelt.

Just then, Vincent hurries up to Abby’s Jeep, cautious of the puddle you’d stepped in. He holds a rain jacket held over his head like a tarp. “You must be Lexa’s mom. I just wanted to say you should be very proud to have raised such a well-mannered and responsible daughter.”

Before you can correct him, your mouth is open and everything, Abby gives you an affectionate smile. “I am very proud, but trust me. That’s all her.”

You sit there awkwardly, not really sure what to do. Thankfully, Abby exchanges a few more pleasantries and then drives away. You wait for her to explain why she didn’t correct him, but she doesn’t. So you keep continue where you left off. “Thank you for picking me up. But you didn’t have to. I could have waited for Clarke.”

“Don’t be silly. It was only a mile out of my way, and it was better that you didn’t have to wait. Somehow I think your mom wouldn’t be thrilled if she found out you were sitting on the side of the street in the middle of the city.” Well, Abby’s right about that, if nothing else. Besides, it is raining. “Anyway,” she continues. “I wanted to talk to you.”

That sounds…ominous. “Um, okay. About what?”

“Well, about you and Clarke.” She sounds very uncomfortable, and her eyes are fixed firmly on the road ahead. She’s obviously driving, so that’s not terribly abnormal, but you can tell she’s avoiding looking at you. “I know you’re…special to each other. She’s…Clarke’s not been especially forthcoming with the details of what exactly you are to one another, but I did see you on the couch a few weeks ago, so I can guess.”

You don’t know how to handle this. “Um…” is all you manage to say in response. Is Abby going to ban you from seeing Clarke? That thought fills you with anxiety. The only way you can imagine getting through high school is having Clarke there for you. 

“Don’t misunderstand. I’m happy for you both,” Abby quickly clarifies, and you think you’ve never been so relieved. “I think you’re a great influence on her, and I think she’ll be good for you too. I just…I’m worried no one’s talked to you about sex.”

“Oh my God,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your face is burning with embarrassment. This is not what you expected. You would never have expected this. You’re getting the sex talk from someone else’s parent! 

Abby laughs, which breaks some of the tension. “I know. I can’t believe I’m doing this either. I just—I want Clarke to be safe, and since you’re with her…”

“We’re not having sex!” you blurt out as fast you you possibly can, steadfastly looking down at your knees.

“I know. Clarke told me as much. But,” Abby’s voice turns soft, “I think someday you might. And Clarke was pretty horrified by what she heard at that bowling night. I’m worried that if that’s the only source of your knowledge…” She trails off and then shakes her head. “Anyway, if you do have sex, I want it to be a safe and good experience for you both. Have—how much do you know? I’m sorry to ask so bluntly, but with Clarke we’ve had a number of conversations about it, and I don’t know…” she trails off.

You decide to put her out of her misery, and you also hope if you cooperate, this will end sooner. Because it seems like it’s going to happen no matter what. “I know what sex is and STDs and that ‘No means No.’” You pause to think, though not much else is coming to mind. “I—I know what they teach in school, at least. I know generally about how condoms work, but that doesn’t apply in this situation. And I know what they taught at my church. Um, but as you heard, that’s maybe not the best source of information.”

Abby nods. “Okay. What about your parents? What have they told you?”

“I—nothing. I think they were waiting until I had a crush on a boy, but since that hasn’t happened, they just haven’t said anything.”

“Okay.” She hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t pass any judgment on that. “I’m assuming you haven’t been told much if anything at all of sex between two women…or two people with vaginas, I guess?” You shake your head and manage to bite back a laugh at that ridiculous suggestion. In no way would anyone ever have told you anything about that. “So,” she says. “I guess we’ll start there. Maybe I’ll just say that sex is whatever the two of you decide it is. A lot of times people think of sex as a penis penetrating a vagina—that’s what schools and churches usually teach—but even with two people who have a penis and vagina, there are other ways to be intimate. You might not be sure of yourself at first, and that’s okay. Even if you were very experienced, what you might consider sex, someone else might not. It’s something you have to talk about before you have sex—what you’re comfortable with and what you’re not, what’s intimate and what’s not. If one of you isn’t comfortable with something, you don’t do it. Make sense so far?”

It does, but it also raises a lot of questions for you. You’re not sure if you’re willing to ask them, though. There’s no precedent for this conversation; in school and church you certainly never opened your mouth during the sex discussions. But maybe this is different. “If I ask you something, afterward can we pretend this conversation never happened?”

“Please,” Abby says with a laugh. “That’s always my deal with Clarke. Ask whatever you want.”

You let out a breath that is half in relief and half a release of nerves. “Let’s say Clarke and I have that conversation. If we have sex after that, how will I know if she’s still okay with everything while we’re…you know?”

“Well, you can ask her. ‘Is this okay?’ is completely acceptable to ask someone during sex. Just like it’s okay to ask the other person for something else if you want it. It’s probably necessary for the first few times with someone until you both have a better idea of what each of you like.” 

You don’t know how Abby can talk so easily about this, but you love her for it. Until now you didn’t even realize you had any questions, but it turns out you have a lot. You keep asking them, and she keeps answering until you get back to their house. Clarke’s car is in the driveway, so you know you have to finish this conversation soon. There’s just one last thing you have to get out. “Clarke and I aren’t dating,” you tell Abby, looking at her directly for the first time since the beginning of this talk. “It’s not safe here, so we’re going to wait until we go to college.”

Abby nods solemnly. “That makes sense. It just makes me sad that it’s necessary. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“We’ll be friends,” you say simply. It had seemed simple when you both agreed to it. But after the past couple of months, and especially now…now that you’ve allowed yourself to think about sex with Clarke, it seems much less clear. 

“But?” Abby asks, touching your cheek gently. She must see some disquiet within you.

You shrug and tear your eyes away from hers. “I want more than friendship with her now. She’s—I have feelings when I’m with her. That’s not something I experience very often. Feelings are usually dangerous, but Clarke makes it okay. And I…I really like kissing her. I don’t want to give her up.”

“Hey,” Abby says softly. You don’t look at her, so she leans over the consul and pulls you against her. Her sweater is soft against your forehead as you breathe in this moment, the way she smells like her perfume and just a little like sweat, and the feel of her hand as it strokes through your hair. It’s been so long since you’ve been comforted by a parent; it’s too much, too much, but you let it happen anyway. “I know. I see the way you look at her when you’re both in the same room. No matter where she is, your eyes are on her. You have such a big heart, Lexa, and the time when it’s most apparent is when you’re with her.”

You clench your jaw against the tears that are burning in your eyes. “I feel like I’m lying in her shadows. I don’t want her to think I’m ashamed of loving her, but I’m afraid I’m not good enough for her,” you admit. Now that you’ve said it, you can’t help but cry a little. It’s been the thought that’s haunted you ever since you and Clarke made the agreement to wait until college.

“No, no. Honey, Clarke doesn’t think that at all. She knows you’re afraid. But Lexa? That fear is just going to hold you down. I’m not saying some of that fear isn’t well placed, but you don’t need to be afraid of being good enough. If you wait until you’re ready, you’ll never be together. That’s not how this works. And you don’t have to be afraid everywhere. To continue with your metaphor, what if instead of lying in her shadows, you lie beside her? Just when it’s safe. When you’re here, you can love her openly.”

Her words somehow serve to both build you up and tear you down. You haven’t truly cried in years. It’s never been prudent, and it’s hard to cry when you don’t really have feelings. But then, no one has held you like this in years either. So maybe you shouldn’t really be surprised to find yourself shaking with silent sobs. And maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that Abby rubs your back and makes soothing noises. But you are. You’re not even really sure why you’re crying except that everything you feel is so much. 

Even after you calm down, Abby doesn’t let you go. She just keeps her arms around you and occasionally kisses the side of your head. You know you should let go, that she’s waiting for you to let go, but you need this comfort right now. Eventually you pull back. Before you can wipe your eyes on your sleeve, Abby pulls a tissue from her pocket and does it for you. She even gets under your chin and wipes away the snot from your nose. “Okay?” she asks.

“Okay.”

Abby helps you out of the car and leads you into the house and into Clarke’s arms. She leaves you alone to talk. 

“What’s wrong? Is it your dad?” is the first thing Clarke says to you after she gently cups your cheeks and searches your face for answers. 

You shake your head because you can’t yet find the words to explain why you were crying. She seems to understand, and just like Abby, she holds onto you while you figure it out. “Nothing is wrong,” you finally manage to say. “I just don’t think I can wait until college to be with you. Your mom talked to me about it.”

“Oh no!” Clarke looks horrified. “She made you talk about sex with her. Oh God.” She buries her face in her hands, but you can still see the blush on the back of her neck. 

“It’s okay,” you say. You try to tug her hands away, but she refuses to let go. “It was…good, actually. No one has really ever talked to me about it before.”

“Lucky,” Clarke mutters, her face still hidden.

You laugh. “Anyway, she told me that there’s no such thing as ‘being ready’ to date someone. If I try to wait until I am or until I’m…I’m not sure…not broken, I suppose, we’ll never be together.”

Clarke’s head snaps up once she processes your words. “You mean—” she starts hopefully. Then she shakes her head. “It’s still not safe for you to come out.”

“No,” you agree. “But she said we could be together when we’re here. Maybe just when we need to be? We would just have to be careful when we’re anywhere else.”

You watch as a slow smile spreads across Clarke’s face. “Thank God,” she breathes. 

And then she kisses you with enthusiasm and smashes your faces together. Your teeth clack against each other. You both pull back and laugh. “Sorry,” she says. She kisses you again with more control, and you forget who you are. You forget that your life is complicated, that your dad doesn’t talk to you anymore and your mom is only intermittently available. You forget that your hometown is homophobic and your school is almost unbearable. All that matters is the softness of her lips and how much you love her.

When Clarke finally pulls away, you blink stupidly at her, dazed. Her lips are moving, but it takes a few seconds for you to register what she says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m really glad my mom gave you the sex talk.”

At first you think you heard her wrong, but then it all comes together and you laugh enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. sorry this took so long. it's been done for awhile, but i couldn't bring myself to post it.
> 
> 2\. i realized i hadn't planned how i was going to do the ending, so i've added an extra chapter. it'll probably only be a couple thousand words.
> 
> 3\. the stuff about sin/grace is a paraphrase of patrick cheng's "rethinking sin and grace for lgbtq people today."


	6. epilogue part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skip to the start of college. we'll call this epilogue part 1 of 2 or 3.

In the weeks leading up to freshman orientation, you attempt to pack up the important parts of your life. Your mom takes you shopping to help you to pick out the essentials. She only rolls her eyes a little when you choose things in grays and blacks. The night before you leave, you say goodbye to Clarke. It’s only a little disconcerting because the two of you will be about twenty miles apart. Still, that’s twenty times farther apart than you currently are. 

Abby kept her word and allowed the two of you to be together in her home. Because of that, you were both respectful and never pushed boundaries. Mostly, the two of you just hung out. You’d quickly discovered it was easier to hide your feelings for each other in public if you didn’t act on them in private. However, there were times when the two of you needed more, and you were glad to have a safe space.

As the two of you lie on her couch with “Gilmore Girls” on in the background, you stroke Clarke’s smooth hair and think about your relationship. Over the past year or so, you’ve discovered new facets of your love for her. You used to think you would never love anyone, and now you’re not sure how it’s possible to love anyone this much. 

When it’s time for you to leave, you savor one last kiss with Clarke.

She wipes some lip gloss residue off of the corner of your mouth. “I’ll pick you up in a month.” It’s the first weekend you both will be free to come home for a visit. 

“Okay.” It comes out higher than you intend because it’s hard to talk around what feels like a fist sized lump in your throat.

“Try to make friends? I know you’re worried about your roommate and stuff, but try?”

“Okay, mom.” You give her a weak smile when she shoves you playfully. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

You and Anya decided on the same college, so you don’t even need to say goodbye to her because you’ll see her tomorrow. They gave her a full scholarship for cross-country, and you’d gotten a partial one on top of a decent academic scholarship. It helped you decide on cross-country over soccer. You’ll finish school with loans, but hopefully they won’t be crippling. 

You’d both entertained the idea of rooming together, but quickly realized she would kill you or you would kill her…possibly both. Instead, you both took your chances on the freshmen lottery. You’d ended up with a girl named Luna. She seemed okay. At the very least, she was willing to bring a fridge. 

After you leave Clarke’s, you head back to your house and spend your remaining hours at home with Aden. The two of you lie on your old trampoline and look up at the stars until the mosquitoes start attacking you. 

“You can call me anytime,” you reassure him just before you head inside.

Aden takes a deep breath, a calming breath. “What if they find out?” You can tell he’s trying hard not to cry. “What if they kick me out?”

“You can always live with Abby Griffin. She knows about us, and she knows about Dad. This year might be hard. I can’t promise things will go well, but I can promise you’ll have somewhere to go if you need it.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t quite sound convinced, but that’s not really what’s important. As long as he knows he has options and remembers them if he needs them. 

To lighten the mood, you decide to goad him. “And take care of my car. Try not to wreck it.”

“Oh my God! I’m a better driver than you are! Your car—I mean OUR car will be fine.” He shoves you over the edge of the trampoline. And then you decide it’s time to go inside. 

The next morning, you, your parents, and Aden all load into the van and set off. It’s only two hours away. It worries you a bit that you’re so close to home. You had your pick of schools; you could have gone to college across the country, but you’d decided to stay close. You didn’t want to be far from Aden or Clarke. It’s much closer to an actual city—just on the outskirts—but you still worry being so close to home means you won’t ever truly leave your hometown behind. Yet, your school is far enough away that it should give you the space to heal. 

 

…  
It turns out it isn’t enough space to give you the escape you were hoping for. Even though your dad isn’t present, you still find yourself hiding from him, especially in people you don’t know. Which, apart from Anya, is pretty much everyone. You think to everyone apart from your roommate and Anya, you come across as relatively normal—quiet, but normal. You’re almost never alone, so you never feel safe. Because everyone is a threat, you keep them at arms length and measure everything you say, testing it against all its possible meanings. It takes time, so you often go the whole day without voicing any of your thoughts. Your speech, when words do come out, has a formal lilt and tempered cadence.

Mealtimes are also difficult. The cafeteria is noisy and full of people who could hurt you. Even worse, because there are so many options, you have to choose what you want to eat. Wanting things hasn’t gotten any easier, and here you don’t know how many carbs are in each dish. So you have to guess and hope you give yourself the right amount of insulin. And then you have to choose where to sit. The cross-country team takes up a long table at dinner, but lunch and breakfast are less structured. You simultaneously hope someone you know is and isn’t there. All of the anxiety you feel means that food turns to sand in your mouth, and it’s difficult to choke down enough calories. Sometimes it’s easier to just not eat. When Anya finds out you’ve been skipping meals, she starts texting you when she’s on her way to the cafeteria, and then she waits outside until you get there. It’s a life saver. While food still tastes like nothing and Anya casts furtive glances in your direction trying to figure out if you’re headed for some kind of break down, at least you won’t starve or die of some diabetes related illness. 

Even when you’re not with people, things are bad. It feels like your skin doesn’t fit quite right. Or like you’re trapped in a snow globe, the only real person among plastic figures, forced to watch the outside world from a distance. Or maybe you’re the one who isn’t real, while everyone else is. You can’t quite decide. But either way, you are afraid you might be going crazy.

Clarke is your anchor. She keeps you tethered to the earth and to the reality you are less and less certain truly exists. Daily phone calls, Skype sessions, and Facebook messenger chats force you to verbally communicate somewhere other than in your classes. You are officially dating now, but of course it’s not that simple. Because your parents don’t yet know, you both have kept your sexual orientations and relationship status off of social media. If anyone asked you directly if you had a girlfriend, you would answer in the affirmative. But the few people who asked about your relationship status asked if you had a boyfriend, and you didn’t feel the need to correct them. The ever-popular Clarke, however, assures you that everyone at her school knows about you. It’s sort of comforting in a strange way to know that people at another school are at least mildly invested in your life. 

By the time a month has passed, you’ve settled into your highly compartmentalized life. You’re one person in class, another at cross-country, and another the rest of the time, and none of the versions of you talk much. So when Clarke knocks on your door on a Friday evening to pick you up for your weekend home, you feel integrated and like yourself for the first time since you got to school. All of the parts of you slam back together as you crash into Clarke’s arms. 

“I love you,” you murmur against the soft skin of her neck, your lips tickling the little hairs and making her shiver. “I missed you.”

She lets out a puff of air that goes straight into your ear. “God. Me too, Lexa.”

“Lexa? I thought your name was Alex?” your roommate calls from where she’s splayed out on her bed. You close your eyes against the chiding you know you’re going to get from both of them for this; you’re not sure how you’d forgotten that the issue of your name would undoubtedly come up. Anya had given you a weird look when people started calling you Alex, but she’d gone with it when you told her you wanted a fresh start.

“You told people your name was Alex?” Clarke asks.

She pulls back, and then you have two people looking at you in confusion. You sigh. You’d known this was too good to last. “Not exactly. They saw my name was Alexandria and asked if it was all right if they called me Alex. I said yes.”

Clarke’s face is scrunched up in confusion, which is adorable, but probably means she’s not going to be happy with you. “You couldn’t just tell them your name was Lexa? ‘Actually, I go by Lexa.’ That’s all you had to say.”

“Wait, so your name IS Lexa?” Your roommate is still inserting herself into this situation, and you wish she wouldn’t, but it is her room too.

“Yes,” you admit, looking at her. “I’ve always gone by Lexa.” Now you turn to Clarke. “It was just easier. I know you said I should try to make friends, but it is…more difficult than I anticipated. It was easier to keep everyone from truly getting to know me if I went by a different name.”

That’s the most you’ve ever said in front of your roommate, and she seems intrigued. It’s enough to pull her off the bed and introduce herself to a very concerned Clarke. “Hey, I’m Luna.”

“Clarke.” She takes the hand Luna extends to her. “Lexa’s girlfriend.”

Luna’s eyebrows shoot up to somewhere near her hairline. “Girlfriend?” she directs to you. “Way to keep your cards close to the vest, Al—I mean Lexa.”

You just shrug. Clarke puts her arm around your waist then, and this is the first human contact you’ve had apart from shaking people’s hands since you said goodbye to your parents. You can’t help leaning into her side when your body realizes just how starved for touch it was. “Sorry,” you murmur. It’s a general apology—it’s meant for both of them, but mainly for Clarke. You hate that you’ve let her down. You promised her you would do your best, and you haven’t been. Mostly you’ve just been avoiding everything.

Clarke just squeezes your side; you know she’ll want to talk about this later when you don’t have an audience. Luna, however, says, “I mean, it’s cool. I’m just kinda curious to know why.”

That’s an easy enough question for you to answer, but you’re not sure if you’re comfortable with Luna knowing. You’re wavering with indecision, and it must show on your face because Clarke says, “It’s going to be a rough year for you both if you don’t tell her.”

So you nod, and haltingly say, “My father made my life very…difficult. Much of the time I am uncertain how…how to cope with it.”

Clarke snorts; you know it’s a reaction to your stilted speech, but you truly can’t help it. You’ve gotten into the habit of talking like this, and it’s difficult to stop. 

“Well, shit,” Luna responds. She throws herself dramatically back onto her bed. “You coulda said something. I would’ve made things easier for you. I will make things easier for you. Once you get back, we can talk about your triggers and shit.”

This is humiliating, but she’s being kind to you. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” You grab your bags and make to leave, but you hesitate at the last second and turn back to face Luna. “This weekend I am going to inform my parents of my relationship with Clarke. I expect it to go poorly. I am—I’m letting you know because I may be even more withdrawn than normal when I retur—when I get back.” 

Luna’s eyes soften. “You’re allowed to be human, Lexa. I’ll be around, but I can clear out if I need to.”

You give a small nod in her general direction as you leave hand in hand with Clarke. 

 

…  
Once you’re in the car with Clarke, driving away from what feels like a prison of a campus, you can feel the deadness melt away in stages the farther away you get. The world seems sharper and more in focus, and you remember what it feels like to be alive. 

“You okay?” Clarke asks softly. She must sense the shift in your mood and overall level of alertness. 

“I’m trying to be.” 

Neither of you speak much on the way home. You know your reunion will take place later tonight, but for now, you’re trying to figure out what you’ll say to your parents. You and Clarke had planned out the logistics last week. She would wait in the driveway while you talked to them until you emerged—either to leave with her or to tell her everything was okay. You shoot off a text to Aden to let him know your plan, and to tell him he might want to steer clear of the house for the next few hours. 

When you pull up, it’s dark so your parents are already inside, though a rake laying on the sidewalk means that they were probably outside doing yard work until the sun went down. The car you and Aden share is gone, so you know he took your message to heart. It takes you a minute or two to work up the courage to get out. “You okay?” Clarke asks again. 

“No,” you admit. This could be the last time you enter this house. You hope it’s not; however, it’s a very real possibility. Some people’s parents might surprise them when they come out, but you know that won’t be the case for you. The best case scenario would be a grudging acceptance.

Clarke nods in recognition. “Well, I’ll be right here. No matter what happens, I’ll be right here. We’ll get through this together.”

“What if it’s bad? What if they kick me out? What if they ban me from talking to Aden?” Those are the worst of your fears. 

“If they kick you out, you’ll come home with me, and then we’ll figure out the rest. It doesn’t make sense to try to come up with answers now. But I promise you we’ll survive this, whatever happens.” Clarke gives your hand a squeeze. You know she wants to do more, but she doesn’t dare with the garage door open.

Her words bring some comfort to you. You treat it like a pep talk and allow it to fill you with confidence. “Okay,” you say, taking a steadying breath. “Okay.”

Then you walk through the garage door that leads into your kitchen. Immediately the scent of pot roast hits you, and your stomach rumbles. 

“You’re home!” your mom exclaims, rushing to give you a hug, and you drop your bag to return it. “We’ve missed you! There are clean sheets on your bed and pot roast for dinner.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Thanks, mom,” you say, your voice softer and hoarser than you were intending. You feel like a little girl again in your mother’s arms instead of the uncertain kind of adult you are right now. 

Your dad even gets off the couch to hug you. “We’ve missed you, kid.”

“I have something to tell you,” you say abruptly after disengaging from your dad as quickly as possible. It makes you feel squeamish when he touches you. 

Your parents nod nonchalantly, like they don’t realize the gravity of this situation. Of course they don’t. How could they? Plus, they’re too busy rustling around the kitchen to get dinner ready to really register your discomfort. But it still feels like they should. “Go ahead,” your mom says, pausing as she pulls plates down from the cupboard, when you remain silent. 

“Clarke and I are dating. I—I’m in love with her.”

These words meet with silence. And then your mom says, “No you’re not.” Her voice is harsh, but a harshness born from panic. It’s like she thinks if she denies it, it won’t be true. 

It still takes you aback. You were expecting rejection or disgust. You were not expecting denial. How can someone tell you you’re not gay? “I—I am. I’m gay. Clarke and I are dating,” you repeat. 

Your dad overcomes his astonishment then and walks away in disgust. So at least you received one reaction you were expecting. And your mom says, “Why are you doing this to us, Lexa?   
Are you punishing us? I know you think your dad didn’t treat you very well, but this is not a commensurate response.”

Now you are skirting two for two. It’s not quite outright rejection, but it’s close. And it’s a sharp blow to the chest knowing your mom thinks being gay is worse than how your dad made your life miserable and then ignored your existence. “No, mom,” you say, fighting back tears. “It has nothing to do with that. I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. I tried not to. I couldn’t help it. She’s—she makes everything so much better.”

“Oh, Lexa,” your mom sighs. She runs a hand through her graying hair, leaving it resting against her head. You both jump when loud banging noises come from the basement. Then you can see her heart breaking; her response is written across her face, but it still hurts so much to hear it aloud. “I’m so sorry, but I think it’s best if you leave. I don’t—we can’t do this tonight.”

Your world stops. “Okay,” you say carefully, fighting back tears. 

“Do you have a ride?”

“Um…yes. Clarke’s outside. We were afraid…” you trail off. You can’t look at your mom anymore, so you take one last look around the kitchen and living room with it’s light blue walls and beat up couch that Aden has launched himself onto too many times. 

Then you leave. The next thing you know you’re sitting in the car next to Clarke. You don’t remember the walk, not that it was very far. At least you had the reflex to grab your bag.

“Are we leaving?” she asks. You can feel her concern radiating off of her, but you can’t respond. Your lack of response must be enough because she drives away. 

It’s only a two minute drive to her house, which isn’t enough time for you to gather your composure. So when Clarke starts to unbuckle her seatbelt and get out of the car, you just sit there without moving. She stills her movements. As devastated as you know she is for you, she must still be excited to see her parents and Marcus. You love her for that and for ten thousand other reasons. 

“You don’t need to be okay,” Clarke says, guessing why you’re not getting up. “You don’t need to pretend. We’re going to go inside, and my family will love you no matter how upset you are. You don’t need to perform. We’ll be right beside you through this. I promise.”

You don’t know how to tell her you don’t feel upset, that you just feel numb. Will they still be supportive if you just sit there like a statue? Because that’s all you feel capable of. But now Clarke is pulling you out of the car and grabbing both of your bags, so you feel compelled to let yourself be tugged along. 

There’s a brief moment of uncertainty when the two of you walk through the door; the three adults look to Clarke for her cue on what transpired. The slump of her shoulders and heavy sigh must be enough to tip them off. It could also be the fact that while you’re not certain exactly what your face looks like right now, you feel…vacant. The next thing you know, Jake has you wrapped in a hug. You’re not in a mental state where you can process what he’s saying, but the gentle murmur is comforting. So is the heartbeat that you can feel where your cheek is pressed into his chest. 

When he releases you, you feel a little clearer. At the very least, the room is now more or less in focus. And when Abby takes you in her arms, you can feel the panic rising in you at her promises of financial support. “I can do it. I’m almost an adult. I can get a job on campus to pay for things,” you tell her. You don’t want charity. You don’t want to be more of a burden than you already are.

“We’ll talk about it,” Abby says. She knows when not to pick a fight; it’s a skill she must have learned from raising Clarke.

“So, shall we go upstairs for dinner?” Marcus chimes in. He gives you a sympathetic wave and smile, but neither of you knows each other well enough to be comfortable with more right now.

Clarke heaves a dramatic sigh. “Thank God,” she says. “I’m so hungry, but I didn’t want to be the one to say anything.”

She leads the charge up the stairs, taking you by the hand and dragging you behind her. The adults grab your bags to toss into Clarke’s room. It’s only when you’re all seated around the table, dishing up the tacos, that you think back to the fact that your mom had made pot roast because it’s your favorite. Everyone must notice your sniffles, but they’re kind enough not to comment on it. 

You’re about to take your first bite when Abby taps you on the hand and says, “Insulin.” Then she cringes back and shakes her head at herself in chagrin. “Sorry. I know you’re not new to diabetes, but I’m afraid you aren’t thinking clearly tonight.”

“Thank you,” you say, pulling your pump out of your pocket. You hate the way your voice sounds flat and emotionless. Because you’re grateful. You had forgotten. Then it hits you. “I need more insulin,” you say. “I was supposed to get a three month refill on everything this weekend. It’s at the pharmacy.”

Abby nods. “Okay. We can go to the pharmacy tonight to pick it up.”

“I don’t—I don’t think I can go anywhere tonight. I don’t think I could handle running into someone,” you admit. 

“No, Lex. Of course not,” Jake says. “We wouldn’t expect you to. I think Abby meant that one of us would run out after dinner.”

There’s just one glaring problem with that. “I don’t have enough cash to pay for it. I could give you my debit card?” You don’t have endless money, but you did work for the past couple of summers and have a couple thousand dollars in your account.

Abby laughs. “It’s okay. I think we can handle the copay.”

“You can’t—I can’t ask you to do that,” you say, defeated. It should be your parents that you’re having this conversation with. As great as Abby and Jake are, this isn’t their responsibility. 

“Just let them,” Clarke says through a mouthful of taco. “You’re not going to win this, so stop arguing and start eating.”

You chafe to fight back. You didn’t get to fight against your parents earlier, and Clarke is sitting here, an easy target—you know she would take it. But you won’t be your dad, so you don’t give into the irrational hatred that boils inside of you, the one that tells you to tell Clarke she could do with a little less food. It only takes about thirty seconds and a bite of food until you’re really glad you held your tongue. It would have been mean…no. It would have been cruel and evil to go after something you know Clarke struggles with. People have sometimes been less than kind to her about her body, and you hate them for it because you love her body. You will never make her doubt that fact, you promise yourself. No matter how angry you get.

Somehow you manage a taco; it’s more than you thought you could eat, but it’s not enough for Abby who tells you to eat at least another. As long as you focus on the conversation that’s going on around the table, not listening, but just letting it rush over you, it’s enough of a distraction that you finish two more tacos. Apparently you were hungry, even if you couldn’t feel it. 

After dinner, Jake and Marcus throw on their light jackets and head to get your supplies. They don’t even have the downstairs door closed behind them when Marcus calls, “Aden! What are you doing here, kid?”

They’ve only met each other a couple of times, but every time they’ve interacted, they’ve gotten along really well. You kind of think Aden as an innocent crush on Marcus. “Um, is Lexa here?”

You rush outside. “Aden,” you breathe. You stop in your tracks when you catch sight of him in person for the first time in a month. 

“Lexa,” he says. Despite the awfulness of this day, he still breaks into a smile when he sees you.

Then you know it’s okay, and you run to hug him. 

“Dad called me and said I had to stay away from you,” he says when you pull back. You hear the hope masked with despair, and you know he’s tacitly asking about tomorrow. Tomorrow Aden has a cross-country meet, and you’d promised to be there. That was before, but a promise is a promise.

“I’ll be at the finish line when you cross it,” you reiterate your promise.

Aden grins. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll be there, and so will Clarke.”

“Yep,” Clarke says from behind you. “I’ll be there.”

Uncertainty plays across Aden’s face. “Dad—he seemed really mad. He asked me if you ever…you know, touched me. Or if Jake touched us. I just…I don’t want to make things worse for you.”

Once more, Abby comes to the rescue. “I’ll be there, too,” she says as she steps outside. “I can’t promise to prevent a confrontation, but I can try. And I can be there if something does happen.”

Aden gives everyone a quick hug, and sneaks in an extra one from you. “I’ve gotta go. They can’t know I’m here. Lex, I’ll text you from Tris’ phone tomorrow to let you know where the team tent is.”

He hops in your shared car and backs out the long driveway at top speed. It’d be dangerous if the car was worth anything or if there were any trees alongside the driveway. So it’s just impressive. Jake and Marcus follow, back on their original mission to get your medicine before the pharmacy closes, albeit much more slowly. 

“Lexa, are you feeling up to talking about some things?” Abby asks. She does a nice job of seeming casual about it, but you know it’s going to be a difficult talk. However, after your panic about your medical costs over dinner, you know it needs to happen. Besides, after seeing Aden, you feel a little more okay. Things still suck, but now you’re ready to problem solve.

“Yes.”

Clarke and Abby lead the way inside and sit on either side of you on the couch. Abby sits a few inches away from you, but Clarke scoots close until her thigh presses up against yours. “So, Abby says. “I think there are a number of things we have to think about, but the two most pressing, the ones we have to take care of as soon as possible, are your phone and your health insurance.”

You drop your head back against the couch. It feels like gravity has doubled its force and is pushing you down. “I can’t afford both of them,” you say. “I don’t even know if they’ll cut me off. Maybe I can risk it.”

“You might be able to risk the phone, but you can’t risk health insurance. Just your insulin costs around $1300 per month without insurance.” She pauses, you assume to give her words a chance to sink in. 

It’s not necessary. If your parents drop you from their insurance, you’re screwed. Besides, if Abby has a solution that helps you escape your parents, you’re at least willing to hear it. “I know. You’re right. What should I do?” 

“Well, Jake and I went over some of our finances today. We both have some spare money, so we’d like to take care of your health insurance and add you to our phone plan.”

Clarke knows you well, so she grabs your wrist before you can refuse out of a gut instinct to not accept help from others. “Take a minute, Lexa,” she murmurs in your ear.

“Jake and I make a rather lot of money, especially now that Marcus is in the picture.” Abby’s words come out in a rush in her haste to reassure you. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I want you to understand that it’s okay. The house is paid for, Clarke’s school is paid for, we have secure jobs, and we each have enough set aside for retirement to be comfortable. Jake and I…and Marcus all agreed to this.”

You roll your head on the back of the couch to look at Abby. She seems a bit anxious, like she’s not sure what she’s going to do if you turn her down, but she also seems genuine. You don’t think she’d mislead you about whether or not she could afford to help you, but… “I don’t want to be a burden. I—”

Abby cuts you off with a shake of her head. “No, Lexa. You’re never a burden. We want to keep you safe and healthy. This isn’t something you were planning for, so of course you aren’t financially prepared. You’re an almost eighteen-year-old kid with an unfortunately expensive health problem whose parents just bailed on you when you weren’t expecting it.”

“Okay,” you say, more to gather your thoughts than to indicate agreement. “Okay. I’d like to pay for my portion of the phone bill, but I would very much appreciate everything else. I can pay you back someday when I have money. Next year I can take out more loans to cover health insurance. I just didn’t realize I’d need to do that this year.”

You catch the panicked glance Clarke shoots at her mom, and so does Abby. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Abby says. “We don’t have to plan everything tonight. I just wanted to take care of the things that are immediately important. Tomorrow after the meet we can go to the Verizon store and take care of the phone.”

Jake and Marcus come home not long after and hand over the box of three month’s worth of insulin, tubing, test strips, adhesive pads, and more. “I checked over it myself,” Marcus tells you with a smile. “You should be all set.”

“Thank you.”

The five of you spend the rest of the evening listening to Clarke regale you all with stories from her first month of college. She’s made a lot of friends and is doing really well in all of her classes. Somehow she’s managing to have fun in the premed courses that are supposed to be weeding out people who can’t keep up. She’s also gone to a few parties and after the first one discovered that she is not very good at drinking. It’s harder than she thought to get drunk on beer, so she wound up mildly tipsy and very bloated. True to her nature, she’s also kept in touch with her high school friends who are all doing well. Octavia and Lincoln went to West Point and the Naval Academy, respectively. They can only write letters, but Clarke’s sure that even though they say it’s hard, they love it. And Raven is kicking ass at MIT. You’re not really participating in the conversation, but you feel safe, wedged between two women who love you and breathing the comforting air of a family that understands and lives out support and unconditional love.

A couple of times you forget why you’re here, why you’re not at home having similar conversations with your family. Clarke’s voice feels like home in the best way, though of course it’s no replacement for the place where you grew up. It’s still nice to forget. In those moments, you would feel peaceful if it weren’t for the gnawing pit of nausea that fills you with anxiety. It’s an abrupt reminder to the situation of your family that tugs you back to reality.

When Clarke leads you up to bed, it’s late. You still take time to shower and brush your teeth before you’re actually ready to sleep. Over the past year and a half, you’ve spent a number of nights in Clarke’s room. Most of the time you slept on the cot, but once in awhile you’d shared her twin bed. Tonight you don’t hesitate before you flip off the light and crawl into bed beside her. Then you kiss her like you haven’t had the chance to in the past month. It’s a rough kiss, a little sloppy until you find her lips in the dark, and you press your leg between hers, drawing a gasp from you both. 

“Whoa. Stop,” Clarke says, pushing you back. 

You’re a little surprised because while you haven’t had sex yet, you’ve come close enough to know that Clarke’s sex drive is way higher than yours. It’s not a bad thing, but it makes it surprising that she’s not willing to go along with this tonight. “What? Why?”

Clarke traces your lips with her fingers, then your eyebrows and nose, all of the contours of your face. You can’t see her face in the dark, but her concern for you comes through in the trembling of her hands. “Because I want to have sex with you when you want to have sex. I don’t want it to be because you’re numb and want to feel something. I love you, Lexa. I don’t, like, have weird romantic expectations for our first time, but I do want you to actually want it.”

“Fine.” You let out a frustrated huff and roll over so your back is facing her. It’s not her fault. You know that. If anything, it’s yours for not bothering to see if Clarke was interested. Everything just sucks, and you’re also a little embarrassed she correctly guessed why you were initiating sex. You genuinely do want to have sex with her sometime soon, but tonight you were hoping it would fill the emptiness inside of you. 

Clarke groans and then taps you continually on the shoulder. “Lexaaaa, come on. I love you. You know I’ll gladly have sex with you any time you want. Just not tonight.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, turning over and nestling your head against her neck. “I know. It’s just been a bad day.”

“Understatement,” she scoffs. Then she softens. “It’s okay,” Clarke says with a kiss to your neck. “So…wanna have sex soon?” 

There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, so you know she’s kidding. And yet, you can’t help but answer seriously, your words muffled a bit by the blonde hair that keeps getting in your mouth. “Tomorrow? Your mom’s working late. I don’t think she would care even if she were home, but it might be awkward for everyone if she heard us.”

“I was just kidding,” Clarke says. Now she sounds panicked, like she’s afraid she’s trying to pressure you into something you don’t want. She prods you in the side when you don’t respond. “Lexa! I was just kidding.”

Then you can’t help but giggle against her. It’s so contrary to how you feel that you sober almost immediately because laughing right now makes you feel like someone you’re not. “I know, Clarke. But I still think I’d like to try tomorrow as long as nothing goes terribly wrong.”

Clarke lets out a frustrated groan against the top of your head; it’s a deep groan, one that comes from her belly, and you know what that means. “Ugh. How do I get turned on so fast? We’ve gotta stop talking about this now or I’m gonna end up masturbating in bed with you, and that, my love, would probably be inappropriate for tonight.”

“Sorry. Maybe we should just go to sleep.” Now you feel a little turned on, but like the laughter, it feels like it’s happening to someone else. You realize now just how right Clarke was: having sex right now would have been a really poor decision. So you snuggle closer into Clarke’s side, and it makes you feel more like you. Clarke is so strong. Certainly she’s soft and comfortable and her boobs are probably the best pillow ever, but she’s like your rock bottom…in a good way. Sometimes you lie on the floor because it’s solid, and there’s nowhere else you can fall. Clarke’s your human version of that. So when you cuddle against Clarke, she absorbs you and strokes the back of your neck in the way she knows calms you. “I love you,” you murmur into her chest. 

“Love you, too.”

The two of you scooch around until you’re comfortably smushed into the pillows and mattress. This day was so emotionally draining that for once, you fall asleep before Clarke. 

 

…  
In the morning, you head to the cross-country meet. It’s a foggy morning with the first bite of fall in the air. You know the fog will burn off by the time the varsity races start. It always does. Abby drives the three of you to the meet, which is held at a nearby high school, a rich kid school with a lot of land and a glorious, grassy/woodsy course. You ran at this meet all four years of high school and had medaled your junior and senior year. Hopefully today Aden can keep up the tradition. During the drive, Abby asks you how college is going. Your answer is a little bit halting because you’re mainly focused on your fear of running into your parents. You know the main reason Abby asked was to distract you, though you know she also cares. Either way, it helps a little. When you tell them a little bit about how your classes and cross-country are going, when you focus just on those two things, college doesn’t seem that bad because you’re excelling at them. You don’t miss the proud smiles they give you.

When you pull into the large grassy space where volunteers are directing cars to park in tidy lines, you scrunch down in your seat like that will somehow make you less visible. The moment the three of you climb out of the Jeep, you’re on high alert, keeping an eye out for your parents. Clarke and Abby undoubtedly notice your terribly concealed anxiety, so without being asked, they flank you and put their arms around your waist. Realistically, if you see your mom and dad, the touch of people who love you won’t stop them from trying to keep you from Aden. Nonetheless, it still makes you feel better. 

You’d planned to get there during the girls’ varsity race. It would have been nice to see your friends and former teammates race, but that wasn’t in the cards for today. There was more risk that your parents would spot you before you got to watch Aden. 

Cross-country is the one sport that requires spectators to exercise, so you lead Abby and Clarke to your favorite spot on this course to watch. It’s the one place where the runners pass by three times and still have time to get to the finish line. Even better, it’s a bit of a hike into the woods and you have to miss the start, so not many people choose to stand there.

“I’m glad you warned us to wear old shoes,” Abby says, panting as she follows you up the final hill. “It’s muddier than I thought it would be.”

You nod. “It always is this time of year. It will dry out later in time for the conference meet as long as it doesn’t rain too much this season.”

When you finally reach the right spot along the trail, Clarke drops to the ground dramatically, sitting on a flat rock. “I was not prepared for this.” She lets out a groan. 

“Well we’re going to have to jog to the finish line. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You exchange a glance with Abby, and you both laugh at Clarke’s fake crying. It’s the first time since yesterday afternoon that laughing doesn’t give you an out of body experience. The daylight has brought with it new perspective and a resilience you weren’t certain you possessed.

In the distance, you hear the starting gun go off, and you hit the start button on your watch out of habit. It’s good. You can shout Aden’s time to him when he runs past. The first time the runners pass, it’s a thunderous herd; you can feel the ground shake with hundreds of running feet. The pack hasn’t thinned out yet, so you, Clarke and Abby shout for Aden even though you only catch a glimpse of his uniform and the top of his head. You also cheer for a few of the other boys on the team. You and Clarke give Monty a particularly loud cheer. During your senior year, he’d started hanging out with your friends. Everyone loves him because he’s such a sweet guy. He’s coming back from an injury, so he’s near the back of the pack. When he sees you, he breaks into a grin and waves. But then he runs over to hug all three of you. Part of you is scandalized, but enough of you is amused enough to hug him back. “Get going,” you say, playfully shoving him back onto the course. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Commander,” he calls over his shoulder, using the nickname some of the kids called you when you were made captain. 

It’s only a couple of minutes before the lead runners come down the other trail. Aden is still near the front. “Yeah, Aden! Looking good. You’re tenth. Work on moving up. One at a time. Nine fifty-seven!” you call, jogging alongside the runners for a few steps. He’s focused, so he doesn’t break stride or turn his head, but his eyes shoot to the side to look at you, so you know he hears. Abby and Clarke are staring at you when you get back to them. “What?”

“I haven’t ever heard you shout,” Abby says.

“I’ve never heard you take charge like that,” Clarke says. “It’s kind of hot.”

“Clarke!” you and Abby say with varying levels of screechiness. 

You cover your face with your arms because you can’t believe she said that in front of her mother, and you’re possibly more embarrassed than you’ve been since you left for college. Clarke is good at that. 

“Clarke. Honey,” Abby says calmly, yet firmly. “I love you and I love Lexa, but what you think is ‘hot’ about her is not something I need to know.”

You’ve recovered enough by now to lower your arms, so you get to see a shamefaced Clarke nod in chagrin. “Sorry. I didn’t think before I said that.”

Thankfully Monty runs by again, so you don’t have to deal with this conversation anymore. Then just a minute later, Aden passes by for the third time. “Less than a mile!” you call. “You’re in fifth! Use your arms!” He’s looking tired, but so are the people in third and fourth. If he keeps it up, you’re pretty sure he can finish in third. “Ready?” you ask Clarke and Abby.

The three of you set off at a jog that’s more of a run. Clarke grumbles at first, but she gets winded after about a hundred meters, so apart from her loud breathing, she’s quiet for the last three hundred. Abby must be in pretty decent shape because when you get to the finish line, she says, with no hint of fatigue, “I’m going to keep an eye out for your mom and dad. I’ll run interference if I can.”

Most people are congregated on the not-yet-finished side of the finish line, but you and Clarke hang out on the other side. It means you can’t cheer for Aden down the home stretch. But it’s safer and better for keeping your promise. 

“You okay?” Clarke asks.

You’re not really sure. Right now you’re focused on the race and on being the first one to congratulate Aden when he finishes. The fear of seeing your parents is nagging you in the back of your mind, but it’s not a main concern. “I think so,” you say.

“Okay. I’ve got your back,” Clarke says. She pats your butt and you turn to look at her in astonishment. “What? Isn’t that what sports people do?”

“No. Clarke, that’s—” You cut yourself off because you see Aden cross the finish line. He did manage to catch two of the runners in front of him! Like most runners who race hard, he staggers through the chutes. You hug him hard when he reaches the end. You don’t even care that he’s dripping with sweat. “Third!” you say, still hugging him. You’re so excited it’s almost a squeal. “Aden, that’s awesome!” 

He gives you a tired smile. “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d be able to get those last two, but they didn’t really kick.”

More runners start coming in and the people working the race ask you to clear out, so you lead him over to Clarke. “Nice work, champ! You ran fast” she says, giving him a friendly hug. You can’t help the snort that escapes, and Aden laughs too. Clarke is so bad with sports. Aden did run fast, but that is hardly a well informed compliment. She shoves you both. “Shut up. I’m sorry I’m not enough of a jock for you two.”

Your phone vibrates then. You assume it’s just your Dexcom app until Clarke pulls out her phone and frowns. “Um, my mom says your parents are on their way over.”

It feels like someone douses your good mood in ice water. When you were with Aden, you’d somehow managed to forget everything that happened. 

“You’d better go,” Aden says, looking around the crowd, anxiously searching for your mom and dad. “I don’t want to get in trouble. And I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Your goodbyes are said hastily. “You’re okay?” you can’t help but ask after you’ve hugged him one last time. “You know what to do if something happens?”

Aden rolls his eyes. “Yes. You’ve told me, Clarke’s told me, and Abby’s told me that Abby always has her phone on her. Even in surgery, she has someone checking it to make sure I’m okay. I appreciate it. Really. But I understood the plan the first time.”

You can understand his frustration, but you also hope he understands your fear. He almost certainly does and is downplaying his own fear because he doesn’t have another choice. Affection for him brings tears to your eyes. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, Lexa.”

You part ways then, keeping an eye out for your parents until you meet Abby at the car. “Did you see them?” you ask when you’re on the road. You’re not entirely certain you want to know, but at the same time, you can’t help but ask.

“From a distance,” Abby tells you, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think they saw you or me. They were cheering on the other kids. I didn’t approach them because it seemed best to avoid a confrontation. I thought that might make things harder for Aden.”

“It would. That was smart,” Clarke chimes in. She looks over her shoulder at you like she’s afraid you’re going to protest. 

They’re undoubtedly right. The problem is that a part of you wants a confrontation, wants to make them defend their actions publically. It probably wouldn’t make things better, but it would be vindictive, and you think that might make you feel better. You push those thoughts out of your mind; they’ll only get you in trouble. You’re out of there. You’re safe. Now what matters is protecting Aden. So instead, you look out the window and sigh heavily. “You’re right.”

 

…  
Abby insists on getting you a new phone (“Your iPhone is almost two years old. It’s not going to last much longer, and it’s cheaper to add you to the plan if we get you a phone now. Consider it an early birthday present.”) with a new number. You’re hesitant about it because people you care about won’t have your number, but Clarke puts her hands on your shoulders as you sit at the counter, slumped over in despair. “This is a minor problem, Lexa. Here. Give me your phone. The new one.”

She scrolls through your contacts that the Verizon guy transferred over and texts the ones she knows you still talk to. In rapid fire succession, she texts Costia, Raven, Octavia, Monty, Luna and a few of your college cross-country teammates with a brief, “Hey, this is Lexa. I have a new number. Please don’t share it without my permission.”

Then she hands over your phone so you can send personalized messages to Aden and Anya. To Anya you say, “This is Lexa. I have a new number. I’ll call you later to explain.” And to Aden you say, “This is Lexa. Abby got me a new phone and new number. Don’t tell mom and dad. Save my number under another name and delete this message.”

When you’re done, you look up at the two women who are standing over your shoulders. “Why?” you ask, broken. You hope they understand what you’re asking. And you hope they understand that you know the answer, but need to hear it aloud. 

Abby crouches beside you and puts her hand on your knee. “You know why, Lexiloo,” she says, and she looks so, so sad. “It’s safer this way. This is hard enough on you without having to worry if your dad is going to call you and berate or threaten you when no one is around to help.”

You let out a shaky sigh and manage a tremulous smile because it’s easier than crying like you want to, but the Verizon guy has been watching and listening to this whole exchange, and you don’t want to make it even more uncomfortable. “I know,” you say. “Thank you.” And then all of you go back to the logistics of the process.

It’s astonishing to you how expensive phone plans are. You’ve always vaguely known this, but it’s never been a tangible reality before now. Your share of the bill should be close to fifty dollars per month, but no matter how much you argue, Abby will only let you pay the twenty dollars it costs to add an additional line.

You’re quiet when you leave the Verizon store. It’s difficult to articulate what you’re feeling, though Clarke asks. Mostly you just shrug. You’re not sure how to say that you’re grateful, but also terribly embarrassed and a little afraid of what you’re going to do. It’s not like you can rely on Abby forever. Clarke seems to understand, or at least she knows you need some kind of comfort, so she puts her hand on the small of your back and kisses you. It’s quick and gentle and risky because you hear three people scoff in disgust, but Clarke just pulls back and glares at them. So does Abby. It still sucks, but their support helps.

They give you your space on the drive back to their house, chatting more about school and work and friends. Aden texts you back with a cheerful, “Cool! I’ll put you in as Katie L. I have like 5 Katies so they won’t be suspicious!” Anya’s reply is dry. “Can’t wait. BTW, thanks for calling yourself ‘Lexa’ in your text to the team. Now they’re all asking me about that.” You’d completely forgotten that everyone at college knows you as Alex. But, you suppose, it’s probably time that they know your real name, even if you are sorry Anya bore the brunt of your mistake. 

There’s not much time left before Abby has to get to the hospital, so you and Clarke heat up leftovers while she rushes to get ready. After you eat and Abby is about to head out the door, she shoos Clarke into her room. Then she takes your hands in yours and says, “Lexa. You’ve had so much happen to you that is unfair and wrong. I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling. I’m sorry your parents haven’t supported you, but that isn’t a reflection on you. I need you to know that you are beautiful and so good. You matter so much, to me and to Clarke but also in general, and I’m proud of you. I’m proud that Clarke has chosen to be with you. Thank you for being brave enough to let us help you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, how to tell Abby how much her words…how much she means to you. But it’s okay because she takes you in her arms and holds your head tight against her chest. Your hot tears seep through her shirt, but she doesn’t seem to mind or even to notice. When she releases you, she gives you a motherly smile and wipes your face with her thumbs. “Okay?” she asks gently.

“Okay,” you whisper back. And you are. But you still take a couple of minutes after Abby leaves before you join Clarke in her bedroom. Clarke’s seen you fall apart before and no doubt she’ll see it happen again, but you don’t want it to happen tonight. So you pull yourself together and then walk into her bedroom. She must see your puffy eyes, but she’s wise or kind enough to not mention them. 

Instead, she says, “Even though things are bad, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I love you, too.” You hear an implicit declaration of love hidden in her words. Then you hesitate, briefly contemplating something you’ve been thinking about all day, before you say, “I still want to have sex with you tonight. Or, I want to try, at least. And I don’t want you to worry that I don’t want it because I do, and if I don’t, I’ll tell you to stop like you did to me last night.”

Clarke stares at you, blinks, and then dissolves into giggles and falls over onto her bed. “Clarke!” You wish you could stop the screechiness in your voice. You can’t, so you throw yourself on top of her to hide your embarrassment. It would also be nice if you could stop your cheeks from burning, but you don’t think Clarke can see that right now because she’s laughing too much. “Clarke! Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry! You’re just so blunt sometimes.” She sounds breathless. At first you think it’s from the laughter, but then you realize you might be squishing her. 

You roll off of her and manage to knock your head against the wall in the process. “Ouch!”

“You okay?” Clarke turns over to look at you, and knocks her forehead against yours. “Shit. Sorry. That probably didn’t help.” Then it’s your turn to laugh. Since she’s sure you’re okay, she silences your laugh with a kiss. Or, she tries, but you’re nervous and life is such a mess, so it just makes you laugh harder. “You scared?” She strokes your cheek with the back of her hand. And you hate that Clarke’s always known you too well. 

“A little.” Her touch quelled your laughter.

“Me too. A little,” she says. Her eyes are so blue and wide, and she’s so pretty it makes your breath hitch. “But I kind of think we’ve already had sex.”

“What?” You scrunch your face up in confusion. You’re pretty sure you would have remembered that. 

Clarke sighs. “Remember how after prom you said you were sad you didn’t get to have a cliché prom experience since you had to go with Monty instead of me?”

“Yes…”

“And how I said I could fix that and we…you know…and you said it was the first time you ever came? I think I’ll always consider that our first time.” 

You do remember that, actually. It hadn’t really occurred to you to count it as sex because you hadn’t really touched each other. It was more just grinding against each other. You’d like to think about that more, but Clarke is looking at you like she’s afraid you might be judging her. “Okay. We can count that,” you say easily. It doesn’t really matter to you, and it seems like it does to Clarke, so you’re willing to defer to her on this. But your hands are still trembling. “Can I still be a little nervous now?”

Clarke snorts in amusement. “Yeah, Lex. You can still be nervous.” 

You kiss her then because she’s sweet and also a little bit obnoxious, but she’s here and with you, and you love her. And you start trembling for other reasons. 

After you’re done for the first time, it’s only a little after seven, and that includes a nap. Clarke stirs sleepily in your arms. “I want to stay here, but I’m also kinda starving. And I want a shower.”

You nuzzle your nose into the soft skin of her neck. She smells a little like sweat and shampoo; it’s so overwhelmingly Clarke, you almost can’t stand it. “Mmmkay,” you murmur. “I promised to call Anya, so I should probably do that.”

“Okay. On three. One, two, three.” Clarke makes a valiant effort, but she doesn’t manage to sit up more than a few inches before she falls back to the bed with a groan. 

You laugh even though she lands painfully on your shoulder. “Five more minutes.”

“Thanks.”

It’s really more like fifteen minutes. Then you call Anya while Clarke is in the shower. 

“What the fuck happened?” Anya says without greeting you.

You know it’s not what she’s asking, but it’s the only thing on your mind right now. “I slept with Clarke.”

“And it was so bad you had to change your number?!” Anya is laughing, which you don’t really appreciate right now. This is one of those times when you’re extremely glad you’d decided not to room together. Sometimes you need her to know she should be serious without you telling her explicitly, and that’s not something she’s very good at. 

You want to snap at her, but that’s usually a time when you should keep your mouth shut, so you take a deep breath instead. Once you’ve let it out, you say, “No. I told my parents I was dating Clarke, and they told me to leave.”

“Fuck, Lex. I’m so sorry.” Now that you’ve fed her an obvious cue, she picks up on the gravity of the situation. “Fuck. What are you going to do?”

“Abby’s helping me figure things out. I just—I didn’t expect to be forced into adulthood all at once.” It feels good to voice that concern aloud for the first time. The two of you talk for a little bit longer until you hear the shower turn off. “Hey, Anya? I have to go.”

You can almost hear Anya nodding into the phone before she realizes you can’t see her. It’s one of your favorite habits of hers. “Okay. Hey Lex?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitates, like she’s not sure how you’re going to feel about what she has to say. “You sound better. You sound more like you. I missed that.”

“Me too.”

 

…  
Clarke drives you back to school on late Sunday afternoon. With the windows rolled down and some sort of pop station blaring, you can almost pretend that everything is normal, that your parents are still talking to you. When you get close to campus, you can feel the anxiety creeping up, the darkness closing in around you. 

“I know,” Clarke says when she notices your discomfort. “I know. But it’s going to be okay. My mom’s going to come by tomorrow to go to those meetings with you. They’ll help you figure this out.” 

You hadn’t forgotten that Abby had helped you contact the administration over the weekend. Since it was an emergency and a rather small school, they put you through to someone who scheduled an appointment with financial aid and the counseling center first thing Monday morning. But knowing that isn’t enough to stop the panic and then the separation from reality that that stops the panic.

Clarke notices you haven’t responded, so when you pull up to the curb outside of your dorm, she touches your face. Her touch is enough to reorient you, to make the world come back into focus. “What just happened?”

It’s not something you are prepared to answer. You don’t have words for it, but you try anyway. “Sometimes it’s like everything fades away. Nothing feels real.”

“Well that’s…not good. You should tell them that tomorrow. But tonight, we’re going to talk to Luna so she can keep you safe, and we’re going to get Anya to hang out with you because it’ll be good for you to have someone familiar with you.”

“Okay.” You take out your phone and text Anya because you know Clarke’s right. Anya might be frustrating much of the time, but you need her with you. She texts back almost immediately and says she’ll meet you after practice. 

Clarke helps you carry your bag inside. And then she absorbs the giant hug Luna tries to give you. She knows you struggle with physical contact under the best circumstances, and tonight it would be intolerable. She tells Luna the gist of what transpired this weekend and mentions the word ‘dissociation,’ a word you don’t know the meaning of and don’t care enough to ask about. Then she says a few more things that you don’t listen to, that you can’t listen to, and kisses you goodbye. She must see clarity in your eyes after your kiss, so she talks directly to you. “I’ll see you on Saturday. Call me after everything tomorrow.”

“Okay.” 

Clarke sweeps out of the room, taking with her all of her optimism and all of your desire to pay attention to what’s happening. It’s only when Luna grabs your arm and you jerk away that you’re at all aware of your surroundings. 

“Whoa there.” She lets go immediately. “I just wanted to let you know that your pal Anya texted you. And to tell you it’s time for dinner.”

“I’m not going.” You can’t even imagine entering the dining hall right now with how bad you feel…with how empty you feel.

Luna snorts at your stubbornness. “No offense, but I’m more afraid of your girlfriend than I am of you.”

“I’m scarier than she is.”

“Yeah, maybe. But while you might yell or hit me for doing something you don’t like, I’m pretty sure Clarke would murder me for not taking care of you. No offense, but you don’t care enough to be that angry at me right now.” She waits for your response, but you don’t really have one because you can’t deny she’s right. So you just kind of grumble a bit. It seems to amuse Luna because you can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “So, we’re going to meet Anya, and we’re going to go to the café since you hate the dining hall.”

You know Luna isn’t going to relent because you’re pretty sure Clarke told her not to, so you follow listlessly, eat halfheartedly, and wander back to the dorm to take a shower. Anya and Luna are beside you the whole time, but you don’t really pay them any mind. The shower helps you to feel more like you. And, weirdly, it helps even more when Luna says, “Hey, can I do your hair?”

You pause in running your comb through your hair that is probably too long. “What?”

“It’s—your hair is gorgeous, but you always pull it back because it gets frizzy. Can I help?”

It’s such an incongruous question because Luna’s hair is so often wild, but then again, you’re certain that’s how she wants it to be. “Okay.”

Luna rummages through her toiletries until she emerges victorious with a small bottle of hair oil clutched in her hand. “Sit.” She ushers you into the cheap chair she bought at Target. You close your eyes, so you don’t really know what she’s doing, but it feels nice. It smells good, too. No one has done more than trim your hair in as long as you can remember. “There,” she says a few minutes later. “The braid will probably fall apart by morning, but it should keep it from getting too tangled when you sleep.”

“Wow. That actually looks really good. You should wear it like that during the day sometime.” 

Because you were so distracted, you’d forgotten Anya was there. Like all compliments, this one makes you cringe from embarrassment, but you also feel a little pride because Anya isn’t one to give them freely. So it’s enough that you reach up to touch the ends of your hair and then glance in the mirror. Anya’s right. The French braid looks really good. “Thanks,” you direct to both of them. 

Anya seems inclined to hang around until you go to bed. She’s probably dying of boredom, so you turn in early and feign sleep so Luna doesn’t talk to you either. It’s the first time the deadening of your feelings actual seems pleasant, but it’s also hard to shut off your thoughts. Tomorrow is going to be a stressful day. It takes hours, but you eventually fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol. remember when i said a couple thousand words of an epilogue? i started thinking about how complicated this would be and realized it needed more than that to adequately wrap up. i was just going to post a mega chapter once i finished it, but i think it would have ended up being somewhere near 25 or 30 thousand words. i hate the idea of multiple chapters for an epilogue, but like, i still hate this fic, so what do i have to lose?


	7. epilogue part 2

Despite not sleeping well, you still wake up several hours before you need to meet Abby. There’s no way you’ll be able to fall back to sleep, so you sigh and roll out of bed. Luna is like a cross between Anya and Raven—fiercely loyal and possessing an inability to take no for an answer. So when she gets up too and offers to help you get ready with an excitement you can’t match, you don’t try to refuse. Although, you’re not really paying much attention to anything, and it takes too much energy to protest. 

“What do you think?” Luna asks when she’s done.

You look in the mirror and are stunned by what you see. “Whoa,” you breathe. It’s maybe the first time in your life that you look cool. Granted, you’re dressed almost entirely in her clothes, but you look cool. She told you to put on your dark skinny jeans while she rummaged through her closet until she found a suitable top—a black tank under a slouchy white tee that has constellations on it. Then she undid what was left of your braid, parted it on the side and ran her fingers through it until it laid nicely on your back and shoulders. What topped it off was when Luna smoothed her fitted leather jacket over your shoulders. “How—” You’re not even sure how to finish that question.

Luna pats you on the back and hands you her black combat boots. “Great base material, mostly. And practice. We’ll get you there if you want.”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Thank you.” It’s rare that you don’t hate the way you look. The clothes and hair distract you from your worries that you’re not pretty and from any features that remind you of your dad. Anything you can do to increase those moments of freedom is something you’ll take. 

“Sweet.” She pushes you against the closet door and pulls out her phone. “Smile…or go for the badass look. Your choice, but probably lose the confused look.”

You try to form your lips into a smile. When Luna texts you the picture, you see you sort of succeeded. Actually, it looks like a cross between a shy smile and a smirk, and it…kind of works. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Luna looks at you in disbelief. “Fuck. I don’t know. Change your Facebook profile picture or your Snapchat icon. I don’t care what you do with it, except I think you should send it to Clarke. So you should do that, and then we can go get breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.” You’re immersed in trying to figure out how your new phone works so you can send the stupid picture to Clarke, so you miss the unimpressed look Luna shoots at you. 

“Frankly, I don’t care. You can take it up with your girlfriend or her mom, but somehow I think they’ll be on my side.”

That’s…fair, you suppose, and accurate. But after you text Clarke, you think about sending it to your mom and have to force back the waves of anguish when you realize you can’t do that anymore. It’s like your mom died and you forgot and then remembered all at once, but really, it’s even worse in some ways because she’s gone, and it’s because she wanted to leave you. It takes too much energy to argue, so even though you still don’t like what Luna said, you stop complaining and tag along with her to go eat something. It’s better to go now while it’s still early, anyway, instead of arguing and waiting until the dining hall fills up. Because if there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that you’re going to end up going to breakfast no matter how much you argue. 

Toward the end of breakfast, you get a text back from Clarke. Or, rather, you get a series of texts. “!!!!!!” followed by “OMG!!!!” followed by several crying emojis followed by “Ur so beautiful! Good luck today! Call me when ur done.”

There’s still about an hour left before your meetings by the time you’re done eating. You’re not really sure what you’re going to do with that time, but then Abby calls you. “Hey Lexa,” she says when you pick up. “I got here early. Any chance you can come find me and help me park? I’m outside of your dorm…I think.”

“Sure. Give me two minutes. I’m heading back from breakfast.” You wave goodbye to Luna who has the misfortune of having an eight o’clock class on Mondays. For a second, you contemplate hanging up, but decide Abby might like the security of having someone on the line. You know you would, at any rate. So you jog back to your dorm with the phone held awkwardly to your ear. “Where are you exactly?”

There’s a road that circles around your building, and you’d rather not run the whole thing unless you have to. 

“Um…” Rustling sounds come through the phone like she’s turning her head to figure it out. “If I said not quite on campus would you know what I meant?”

You let out a laugh that is a bit of a pant. “Yes. I strangely do.” By now your dorm is in sight, and as soon as you get around to the front of your building, so is Abby. She waves at you, and you get into her Jeep to direct her to the guest parking lot. “Hi. Thank you for coming.”

“We’re not doing this again, Lexiloo. You don’t need to thank me. I wish this weren’t necessary, but I’m happy to be here beside you as you go through it.” 

Since there’s still a lot of time left before your meeting, you take her on a tour of the campus. It’s a small school, but it’s gorgeous when you’re present enough to see it. In some ways it’s like you’re touring your own campus. You actually break out in a grin when you show her the track—the one place on campus you actually like right now. 

“It’s beautiful,” she says, gazing out over the track, where the trees in the background have started changing from their summer green to the reds and oranges and yellows of fall. “You look beautiful, too.” She looks you up and down. “Really nice, Lexa.”

You nod. “Thank you. Luna thought I would feel better today if I looked nice.”

“Is it working? How are you feeling?”

Before today you hadn’t put much stock clothes. They were just things you wore for practicality; mostly you chose to dress around your sports schedule. But now, even though they’re Luna’s clothes, you think maybe clothes can be a kind of armor, that maybe if you’re comfortable in them, you can derive strength from them and they can offer protection…from others and maybe even yourself. “I’m feeling okay. I’m nervous, but I feel…I feel like I can do this. I feel like this is a step toward gaining control.” 

“Good. That’s how it should be. It’s not a trial; everyone we’re meeting with today is on your side. They want to make sure you’re safe and happy here.” 

You make your way to the administration building then. When you get there, the administrative assistant gives you a big smile. He looks like he’s maybe, maybe a couple of years older than you, and you wonder if they hired him right after he graduated. “Hi, Lexa,” he says. At first you wonder how he knows your name, but then you realize there probably aren’t many meetings scheduled first thing in the morning. “I’m Miller. They’re waiting for you in the conference room. Let me take you there.” He leads you and Abby through a series of turns up narrow narrow staircases. “Sorry. I know this is a super creepy building. When they decided it was too old for dorms, they turned it into offices. Have you heard the rumors yet that it’s haunted?”

“No.” He’s trying to be nice, but you aren’t interested right now. 

Thankfully, Abby takes over the social niceties for you. “It’s haunted?” she asks over her shoulder. Nathan had insisted the two of you go first up the stairs.

Nathan laughs, the kind of good natured laugh you make around people who are older than you that demonstrates your ability to interact with others. “Maybe. I’ve heard stories, but I haven’t ever seen any ghosts.” He leads you down a final hallway and opens a heavy wooden door for you. “It’s right in here.”

Even though you take a few seconds to center yourself, to close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, Nathan doesn’t seem to mind. Neither does Abby who squeezes your hand. Finally you’re ready. You drop Abby’s hand as you stroll confidently through the door. It’s one of those conference rooms with a big oval table and rolling chairs crammed around it and lining the walls. Only three of the chairs are filled, and a fourth person is waiting to welcome you.

“It’s so good to see you,” the man says, taking your hand in both of his. “I’m Dr. Eric Jackson. I’m the head of counseling services.”

“Lexa,” you return with a feigned confidence. You gesture over your shoulder and stick your chin up in the air in defiance. “This is Abby Griffin. She’s –she’s my girlfriend’s mom.” 

Instead of the negative reaction you weren’t expecting but were afraid of, Dr. Jackson smiles at you both. It seems genuine, warm even. “It’s wonderful to meet you both. Thank you for coming in today.”

Shouldn’t you be the one thanking him? You’re not sure how to respond, and his comment, hanging in the air, starts to turn awkward. Thankfully he gestures then and tells you to sit wherever. Without thinking, you pull out a chair for Abby. At first you feel rather foolish—she could have done that for herself—but the look of pure adoration she gives you tells you she thought it was sweet…or at least cute. It’s not quite the image you were going for, but the confident badass thing is new. You’ll get there.

Dr. Jackson interrupts your musings. “Lexa, this is Nyko who’s going to help us get your health insurance sorted out and Niylah, your social worker.”

“My…my social worker?” you echo, blinking at him in confusion. Abby seems confused too, and she must sense your agitation because she takes your hand under the table. She’s so often good at knowing when you need help calming down and when to give you space so you can self soothe. 

Niylah nods, a calm expression on her face. “Yours is a unique situation. Because you’re only seventeen, your parents are still legally involved in your life. For instance, you can’t talk to a counselor here without their permission. The school hasn’t dealt with this scenario before because almost every student is over eighteen when they arrive. They called child protective services this weekend who referred them to me. We discussed the best course of action.” 

She pauses to give you a chance to process her words. It’s a lot, and kind of confusing and ominous, but at least she’s talking to you and not to Abby. “Okay,” you say when you’re ready to hear the rest of it.

“Your parents asked you to leave, but they didn’t technically kick you out and leave you with no place to go, which means it’s probably not worth trying to charge them with child abandonment, not least because you’ll be eighteen in less than a week. But it also left us in a tricky position because we needed their permission to have this meeting. I called your mom, and she agreed to sign a release to allow us to help you. Does that all make sense?”

“I—yes,” you somehow manage through your…your you don’t even know what. Dumbfoundedness? Astonishment? Horror? Devastation? Your feelings at the moment are hard to identify. What isn’t hard to identify is the self hatred you feel when you can’t stop yourself from asking, “Did you see her? How is she?”

The sad smile that barely touches Niylah’s lips at your eager words tells you more than her answer. “Regretting her decision, I think.”

Dr. Jackson redirects the conversation then, and Abby and Nyko start talking about health insurance. You follow along, but you don’t say much because you don’t really know anything about this, and Abby has been doing the adult thing for awhile. What you glean is that the enrollment period for school health insurance has passed, but that Nyko has been on the phone since very early thing this morning working with them to allow you to enroll late because of extenuating circumstances. It’s easier than trying to sort out the Affordable Care Act since you’re underage, and you’ll have better coverage and easier access to services at the school. More or less, you’ll have health insurance as soon as Abby pays the required three thousand dollars. The horrified look on your face must signal to Abby that you’re going to protest because she reaches over to give your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

Once that’s sorted out, Nyko leaves and Dr. Jackson takes over. He asks you if you’d be more comfortable talking to him individually, but you decline. That seems to surprise him, so you explain your past history with counseling—how the school social worker made you go and how your dad stopped talking to you. You’d rather have kept it to yourself, but you remind yourself that you’re embodying courage, clench your fists to stop them from trembling so badly, and tell the truth.

To his credit, your story doesn’t seem to faze him. He just cocks his head and nods thoughtfully. “I can see why you would want other people here while we figure out the best course of action. Why don’t you start by telling me what happened this weekend?”

You tell him the basics, and then because you can’t stop yourself, you find yourself trying to articulate how it feels to lose your home. No words quite accurately capture what it’s like to realize you’ve lost everything. Certainly you realize just how lucky you are to have Clarke and her parents who insist on supporting you. Without them, you would be at the mercy of your parents. And yet, while you still have somewhere to go for holidays and someone to call when you have a bad day, it’s not the same. They’re not the people who held you and explained to you about the magic of Christmas when you cried because you found out Santa Claus wasn’t real. Or the ones who wiped your runny nose as a child. Or who sat by your bedside when you almost died because you were so, so sick and insisted on hiding it, only to find out you had diabetes. You’ve lost the people who made up your childhood, for better or for worse (in some ways it’s harder to know they often made your childhood worse because knowing it makes you feel so conflicted), and you don’t really know how to move forward from that. 

“That sounds really tough. I’m sorry your parents didn’t offer you the support you needed.” Dr. Jackson pauses until you nod in acknowledgment, and then says, “I’ve heard you’ve been having some trouble here. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been experiencing?”

So you tell him about how you often feel disconnected from yourself and how you feel like you’re going crazy because you’re never alone, and you’re so used to trying to be invisible. Sometimes you feel angry, but it’s better than most of the time when you just feel simultaneously scared and empty or dead inside. When you finish, Dr. Jackson talks to you about trauma and anxiety and dissociation. He helps you schedule a weekly appointment with someone in the counseling center. It feels good that he’s talking directly to you, even if you don’t like what he’s saying. Abby must sense your tension because she gently rubs your back. 

The last thing he says is, “I know life hasn’t been much fun for you up until now. We’ll see if we can work on that.” It’s not something you considered before now, but it hits you hard. You hadn’t realized that life could be fun. Now that he’s planted the idea in your mind, you find you crave it, and that’s dangerous because you can’t ever imagine achieving it. But…maybe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you can have it. 

After everything’s over, you feel so, so tired. Extricating yourself from your parents’ grasp is harder and more emotional than you thought it would be. Abby grabs your arm to hold you back as Niylah—who shakes your hand, gives you a card, and tells you to call her if you ever need her even after you turn eighteen—and Dr. Jackson file out. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks when the door closes behind them and you’re alone. She’s standing a couple of feet from you like she’s not sure how to approach you. It feels like she’s afraid of you, and that hurts so, so much because she never has been before. Is it because she knows how messed up your head is now that she’s heard you talk about it? 

You don’t trust your voice, so you just shrug and look at the ground. Facing an Abby who’s afraid of you is more than you can handle today. But she surprises you. With a gentle hand, she touches your cheek until you meet her eyes. “What are you thinking, Lexiloo?” she asks softly.

“You’re not afraid of me?” you ask in disbelief.

“Why would I be afraid of you?” Abby frowns up at you. It feels like she should be taller than you, but she’s at least a couple of inches shorter. Why have you not noticed this before?

It’s too hard to say it to her, so you speak to the ceiling. “Dr. Jackson is making me go to counseling because he’s afraid I’m a danger to myself.” It’s true. That’s more or less what he told you.

The sharp breath of air that Abby dispels hits you right in the throat, and she grasps your forearms tightly. “No, Lexa. No. I’m not afraid of you. I was just uncertain. I didn’t want to touch you or make you talk if you needed some space.”

“Oh.”

There’s nothing you can think to say in response, so you just stand there feeling more awkward by the second. Abby starts to pull away, and it’s enough to jar you into knowing what you want, so you throw yourself against her. She staggers back a step, but she catches you and holds you firmly against her. You don’t have the energy to cry, so you grab the back of her shirt, rest your cheek on the top of her shoulder, and breathe deeply. Abby seems content to hug you silently. Even after several minutes, an eternity for a hug, she doesn’t pull away. It’s several more before you feel like you have the strength the face the outside world. 

Abby smiles up at you when you step back. “Since you’re excused from classes for the rest of the day, what do you think about getting some lunch? Then we can go shopping for your birthday.”

“I—you can’t buy me something for my birthday. You already bought me a phone, and you just spent three thousand dollars on me!”

Abby laughs and marches you out of the conference room. “The phone was a part of your gift. And as for your health insurance, we’ve talked about this already. Jake and I are budgeted for it. You’re getting a real birthday present. Now, what do you think? Clarke and I were texting while you were talking to Dr. Jackson. She says she’s free this afternoon. We can get an early lunch and then pick her up and go shopping?”

“Okay…but I have an appointment with the trainer first, and I have to be back by four for practice.” You’ll try arguing with Abby again later. Besides, you hadn’t considered getting to see Clarke. 

Abby readily agrees. It turns out she gets along well with the trainer whom you have weekly meetings with because your coach is worried about your diabetes. The trainer tells Abby about how he’s trying to get you to gain weight…or more to the point, to first stop losing weight and then to gain weight. Until you stop losing weight, you’re on a limited running and lifting schedule. He’s given you a calorie count to hit with each meal and snack. Most days you fail, but you’ve been failing by less recently. Abby asks if there’s anything else you can be doing. The trainer says the same thing he’s been telling you since the start of the year: protein shakes. The problem is that most of them are loaded with sugar, which you can’t eat, especially in liquid form because it makes your blood sugar spike. Protein shakes also expensive. Abby gets a big smile on her face, and you know whatever she’s thinking is going to cost money and that she won’t count it as your birthday present. 

“What about whey protein powder? There’s a sugar free brand. Lexa can get milk and peanut butter from the store on campus and keep it in her room. We’ll get her a blender.”

You were right, but you can’t fault her logic. And you’re pretty sure the trainer is going to weep tears of relief. He’s been freaking out for weeks; he told you the next step is having you quit the team so you don’t end up in the hospital. 

Abby makes a stop at a health food store on the way to the restaurant. She buys you a Ninja and the biggest thing of protein powder you’ve ever seen. You choose the chocolate kind with no sugar. “Twice a day,” she tells you solemnly. “I want pictures. And don’t think I won’t get your roommate involved if you start slacking.”

“Okay.” As much as everyone keeps treating you like you don’t want to gain weight, you truly are trying. It’s just so hard to eat when the cafeteria is noisy and filled with people. And it’s probably one of the reasons why Dr. Jackson was so insistent upon weekly counseling for you. You’ll absolutely make two protein shakes twice a day. And you can be guaranteed that you’ll do it because you can do it in your room.

“Lunch?” Abby asks. 

She takes you to a restaurant in the city. Apparently Clarke told her you’d like it. She’s right. You love Mexican food. You get a delicious salad that has a ton of chicken on it. When Abby tells the waiter you’re a diabetic, he brings you some vegetables to dip in the salsa along with the chips. Certainly you eat chips, but you mostly eat the veggies because Abby is watching. 

“Thank you,” you murmur when Abby pays. It’s a thank you for more than just the meal, more than the blender and protein powder and health insurance. 

She seems to understand because she puts an arm around you, just like she would for Clarke, and walks you back to the car.

 

…  
Clarke has just gotten back from class and isn’t ready to leave, so you and Abby meet her upstairs at her room. When Abby knocks on the door, Clarke flings it open almost immediately. She takes one look at you and says very quickly, “Hi mom. Do you mind waiting out in the hall? I’m going to tell Lexa what I think is hot about her, and you said before you don’t want to hear it.”

Abby lets out a half-disgusted, half-amused snort and looks to the ceiling as if it can offer her strength. “God help me,” she mutters, but you know she’s just kidding, so you shoot her a smile over your shoulder as Clarke drags you into her room.

You’re expecting a fierce kiss or embarrassing compliments, but instead Clarke asks if you’re okay. The thing is, despite the constant overall terribleness of the situation, you really are okay at the moment. So you tell her as much. THEN she kisses you like you were expecting. “God, you’re so hot,” she murmurs against your lips when you finally pull back to breathe. It’s not really fair to make Abby wait in the hall while the two of you make out, so you both work on straightening your clothes and wiping your faces. “Can I help you pick out clothes for your birthday? Because, damn Lex. You look so, so good.”

Normally clothes for your birthday wouldn’t interest you. But you like the idea of dressing like this all the time, and even more importantly, you like the idea of Clarke being the one to pick out your clothes. So you quickly agree to Clarke’s plan. Abby drives both of you to a nearby mall, and you let the two of them help you find new clothes. They stick you in a dressing room and bring you so many articles of clothing it’s hard to keep track. You’re pretty certain they’re doing it on purpose. After all, you’re so busy trying on clothes that there’s no way for you to keep a running tally of how much everything is costing. 

When all is said and done, they’ve found you half a dozen shirts, a leather jacket that’s even cooler than Luna’s, two pairs of jeans, and the most beautiful pair of combat boots you’ve ever seen. The total cost nearly brings you to tears, but Clarke kisses you on the cheek and reminds you it’s divided four ways: her, Abby, Marcus, and Jake. They all want to make sure you have a good birthday. It helps a little, but you’re still a little teary on your walk back to the car. Some of it is because of their present, but most of it is because it was such an emotional day, and you’re overwhelmed by Abby’s love for you and unexpectedly getting to see Clarke. 

By the time you’re back at Clarke’s school, you’ve managed to pull yourself together…at least enough to ask Abby if she would mind if you walked Clarke up to her room. Clarke frequently tells you what she finds hot about you, but you’ve never said that to her. So you’ve been thinking all day about how to express your feelings. Unlike Clarke who can just casually blurt out her feelings as she feels them, you shift back and forth awkwardly in front of her door, trying to work up the courage while Clarke watches you patiently.

When your words finally do come out, they rush out in a deluge, your face burning red. “I think you’re really hot, too. Sometimes you dress in nice clothes, and sometimes you have your hair pulled up in a bun and wear sweats, but every instantiation of you is hot. And you always seem to know what you’re doing. You’re confident, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that you seem to know what you want and you go for it and expect others to follow. And I think that’s really hot.” 

“I—” Clarke cuts herself off with a shake of the head. It’s one of your favorite and somehow also least favorite things about her. She often starts talking when she’s nervous or uncertain without thinking about what she’s going to say. Sometimes it turns into nervous rambling, but not today. Today she takes a deep breath, and it gives you the chance to see her face flush. “Fuck,” she breathes. “Fuck, Lex.”

She pulls you inside her room and presses you up against her door. And she kisses you so hard. Thankfully her roommate is out. “Fuck,” she says again when she pulls back. “That was…that was…I’m so glad you told me.” And then she giggles. “But you’re such a nerd! You used the word ‘instantiation’ when you were telling me what you think is hot about me.”

It’s…unfortunate, but undeniably true. “Shut up.” It’s a lame comeback, but again, you can’t really refute what Clarke said. “I have to go.” 

“No, no. Hey, it’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed. I love that you’re a nerd.” 

She tries to kiss you again, and you let her for a few seconds, but then you push her away. “I really do have to go. Your mom’s waiting for me.” Clarke groans, but manages to make herself let go of you. You’re almost out the door when she catches your arm. “Clarke,” you say, a warning in your voice.

“No. I don’t…I just—are you okay? Like really? I know today sucked.” 

Words are too hard, so you shrug, both in response and to push back the rush of feelings you’d almost managed to forget. The gnawing pit of dread in your stomach has been consistent ever since your mom asked you to leave. Sometimes you forget why it’s there, but then the reason why hits you all at once. Like now. 

Clarke hugs you, her gentle arms a vast difference from when she had you pinned against the door. “I know,” she murmurs, her lips against your hair. “I know things are bad right now, but I promise it will get better.”

“I know. It’s just—it’s difficult to believe it sometimes.”

You feel Clarke’s nod against you. “I get that. What if I promise to remind you?”

“Kay.”

Clarke releases you again after one last kiss and after coaxing a promise from you to call her tonight when you’re done with practice and dinner. That was never in question. Calling Clarke is your nighttime routine.

Abby takes one look at your face when you climb into her car and shakes her head. “I don’t want to know,” she says with a shake of her head and a wry smile.

 

…  
Saturday is your school’s home meet. It’s also your eighteenth birthday. Come Monday you’ll finally be able to change your mailing address and move your money into a bank account your parents can’t access. But today you’re at the meet, and you and Anya hang off to the side while all of your teammates stand a dozen meters or so from the team’s stuff with their parents. Despite the promises Anya’s mom made to get help and that things are a little better now, she still isn’t the most stable person. She’d forgotten about the meet and decided to pick up an extra shift at work. And your parents…it is pretty safe to say they aren’t coming. You know Jake, Abby, and Marcus will be here as soon as they pick up Clarke, but it’s not the same. 

“Well this is fun,” Anya murmurs to you with a jab of her elbow. A glance in her direction tells you that the sarcastic grin she has plastered across her face looks more like a grimace. Normally it doesn’t bother her that her mom is notoriously unreliable. She’s too used to it. But today all of the other girls on your team have people there for them, and seeing all of the supportive parents is hard for her. Hard for you both, really, though in very different ways. At least you don’t hate your teammates so much anymore. They don’t know all of the details, but now that they know something is going on in your life, they’ve stopped looking at you like you’re crazy. Instead, they’ve been supportive and understanding. So while it’s difficult to watch them today, you don’t feel a burning hatred. 

“Oh yeah,” you respond, matching her sarcastic tone. “The most fun I’ve ever had. I love reminders that there are parents that love and support their children unconditionally.”

Anya snorts, and you’re thankful as always that you share a dark sense of humor. “For real, though,” she says, suddenly sober. “It sucks that they didn’t come even though it’s your birthday. How are you doing with that? Clarke and Co. are still coming, right?”

“Yeah. And I’m glad…”

“But?” 

You sigh and rest your head against Anya’s shoulder. Over the past two years, you’ve both gotten immeasurably better at handling physical contact. Clarke’s made you more comfortable with it, and it trickled down to Anya. Sometimes it’s scary because now that you need physical contact, you’re not sure what you’ll do if it’s ever not available. But that’s really not the point. “I am grateful, but it’s not the same. It’s the first birthday I’ve had where my parents won’t take me out for dinner. Aden texted me, but I won’t get to see him. I hate it. I love the Griffins. I do. They’ve made me a part of their family, but they’re not my family. Not really.”

“They are in all the important ways,” Anya counters. It’s a weird parallel to the last time you saw Clarke because you can feel Anya’s breath on your head. “They take care of you and love you unconditionally.”

She’s not wrong, and yet… “That’s what people always say. It always sounded really good to me until this happened. I understand the concept of found family, and maybe someday it will feel like enough, but right now it doesn’t. Right now it just feels like I lost my home.”

“That’s cuz you did, Lex. I didn’t mean it shouldn’t hurt. It should right now. But someday maybe the fact that Clarke’s family is your family will feel like it’s enough.”

Thankfully your coach tells your team to start warming up then, so you don’t have to respond. 

The Griffins and Marcus show up at some point during your warmup run. You break off from the group just long enough to hug each of them and to tell them you’ll see them after your race. Because you’re still on limited mileage, you’ll only have to do a brief cool down afterwards. You’ve already talked to your coach, and she agreed to let you leave early because it’s your birthday. You’re also pretty sure she’s more or less aware of what’s been happening in your life and would allow you to do just about anything without questioning it. So once Clarke and her family wish you luck, you cut through the row of busses to catch up with your team.

As you line up at the starting line, you feel a great deal of pride in Anya. She’s come in as a freshman and claimed the number two position on this very strong team, and she carries the responsibility of it with grace. Or, rather, with a rock solid confidence that can’t be shaken. Anya’s not clumsy, but she also can’t really accurately be described as graceful. You line up behind the top five. If you’re lucky, you’ll come in sixth for your team. If nothing else were going on in your life, you’d probably chafe at this position, but your position on the team has been the least of your concerns. Besides, your coach and trainer are convinced that once you put on some muscle mass, you’ll rival Anya. 

The gun goes off, and the next six kilometers are a blur. Except. Except there’s a moment when you hear a familiar voice cheering your name that draws your attention. You stumble. Once you’ve regained your footing, you’re past her, but you’re certain it was your mom. You regained your footing, but you never quite regain your concentration. When you cross the finish line, you find you finished in seventh for your team. One moment of consternation is all you allow yourself. Slipping one place on the team isn’t terrible, after all, especially when you’re carrying so much weight on your shoulders. 

Then all of the possible implications of your mother’s presence at your meet smack you on the back and nearly knock you over. Except that implications and emotions don’t have the power to knock people over, and it’s actually Anya. She’s holding you up and giving you a concerned look. “My—my mom,” you somehow manage to stammer out, grateful for Anya’s support as she walks you back to your bag.

“I know.” Anya looks grim most of the time, but this is maybe the grimmest you’ve ever seen her. She’s scanning the crowd, keeping an eye out for your mom. What she’ll do if she sees her and your mom tries to talk to you, you don’t know, especially since your mom hadn’t tried to harm you. “I know.” 

Even though it’s the last thing you want to do, you know Anya is right to make you change out of your spikes and into your trainers, grab a snack, and go on a cool down. She takes you down the trail your team runs on a couple of times per week. There are other runners there, but no one tries to talk to either of you, and there’s no chance you’ll run into your mom, so it is a good option.

“Thank you,” you force yourself to say once your breathing is under control and your thoughts in some sort of order.

Anya’s easy breaths are interrupted with a sharp exhale. “No thanks necessary,” she says, more calmly than you were expecting. “You would do the same for me. You have done the same for me. Shit, Lexa. When I moved to that hellhole in middle school, no one talked to me because I looked and sounded different. Add that to the fact that I was basically taking care of my mom. I didn’t think I was going to survive much longer. You made it bearable. It still sucked ass, but at least I could keep going. That’s all I want for you right now.”

It’s not the first time Anya’s mentioned this. On bad days when she can’t keep up the tough exterior, she sometimes talks about this with you. But it is the first time she’s put it together like this for you, highlighting the reciprocity of your friendship. It’s not a commercial exchange where you each do something to get something in return; rather, it’s more akin to gift giving. Both of you, on equal footing, take care of one another in equal measure, knowing that you take care of Anya and she’ll take care of you. It makes you feel less guilty for relying on her. 

“What am I going to do?” you find yourself asking. The pounding of your feet on the trail brings you the comfort of familiarity. 

Anya’s silent for a few strides. Then she says, “Well, for starters, we’re going to go find the Griffins. We’ll do what we can to avoid your mom and any other family that might be here…except Aden. I still like him. That will take care of today. In the future…I don’t know. You’ll have to think about what you want. Will you be willing to allow your parents to make amends with you? How much will you allow them to be involved in your life? You’ll have to think about these things.” She must hear your broken breath that’s more like a sob because she quickly says, “But not today. Today you get a break because it’s your birthday. You’ll go out to lunch with the Griffins, and then we’ll celebrate tonight. Okay?”

By now you’ve made your way back to your stuff where the Griffins and Marcus are waiting anxiously. “I was thinking I might see if Abby would let Clarke and me stay with her again this weekend.” It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with Anya, but you would much rather get off campus and away from everything.

For some reason, you don’t consider that Anya might protest. People haven’t been challenging you on much lately. But she surprises you. “I think you should stay. Have Clarke stay with you this weekend if you want since Luna’s out of town, but you’ve gotta get used to staying on campus. Besides, we’ve planned you a party. It was supposed to be a surprise, but that just seems like a terrible idea for you. It’ll be low key, I promise. Last weekend it made sense to stay with Abby. This weekend you’re staying on campus. Okay?”

“Yes.” In some ways it’s a relief to have someone tell you what to do instead of them giving you choices so you can decide. Because you don’t know what to do about anything. There are too many options that all have the potential to drastically alter your future. As you shoulder your bag, you brush back hairs on your face that escaped your ponytail and give Anya a smile. It’s a bit forced, but you know the attempt is appreciated. “I’ll let you know if Clarke will be at the party.”

“That’s my girl.”

You snort and shove Anya as you walk past her to go over to the bus where Clarke and her family are hovering awkwardly. At first you’re surprised that they mostly just look at each other when you approach. But then Clarke says, “So…” 

And you know that they know. “I saw her.” Suddenly your bag feels a hundred pounds heavier. As much as you don’t want to deal with this right now, you’d rather get it out of the way. “I assume she left?”

“Yeah.” Clarke steps forward and wipes some dirt off of your cheek. “She said—”

“Wait. You talked to her?”

Abby’s eye roll and Clarke’s guilty shrug tells you that wasn’t something Clarke was supposed to share. “Sorry, Lexiloo.” She nudges Clarke out of the way so she can hug you. When you’ve submitted to it, not enough to relax but enough to satisfy her, she says, “She told us to wish you a happy birthday for her and to tell you she loves you. And that she’s trying.”

Tears burn behind your eyes. Even while trying not to cry, you manage to scoff in disbelief. “Yeah. That’s such a relief. I’m glad to know she has to try to talk to me now that she knows I’m gay and she kicked me out. She’s really doing a great job at this parenting thing.”

Thankfully no one tries to console you. Nothing they could say would make any difference. So they pass you along. Jake’s bear hug feels like he’s holding you together. Marcus gives you a hug and a swift kiss to the cheek. And Clarke murmurs a happy birthday and kisses you. Solidly. And inappropriately enough that Abby taps her on the shoulder and Jake clears his throat. 

“Sorry,” Clarke says, casting a cheeky grin at her parents over your shoulder, and all of you know that she’s not embarrassed or sorry in the slightest. 

However, you are way easier to embarrass, and you hide your face against her collarbone. Still, your embarrassment doesn’t stop you from asking, “Will you stay with me tonight? Luna’s gone for the weekend.” 

Your voice is muffled, though you can’t bring yourself to care because you’ve turned your head, and your lips are now pressed against her neck. Her skin had been covered by her sweatshirt, so it’s pleasantly warm against your face that’s chilled from the fall day. Plus, she figures it out eventually, though she does laugh at you. “I was hoping you’d ask. Anya invited me to your party. We can have our own party afterwards.”

Clarke strokes her hand low against your belly. When you squirm away from her because it tickles and because you’re getting turned on in front of her family, she laughs at you. “Clarke!” you squeal indignantly…as indignantly as one can possibly squeal. “Not here!”

“I’d have to agree,” Jake says. “This is not how I need to see my little girl. Both of my little girls.”

The little huff Abby makes is starting to feel very familiar. “Nice try,” she says to Jake, a friendly hand on his bicep. “I’ve been telling them that for weeks to no avail.” Your raised eyebrows make her smile, a smile she hides in Jake’s arm. “Alright, so it’s mostly Clarke.” It’s weird that they’re still so familiar and that Marcus doesn’t seem to mind. Of course Abby knows the romantic element of their relationship is over, but she still hasn’t broken the habit of touching Jake whenever they’re together. Or maybe she spent twenty some years used to physical touch and lost it all at once, and she still needs it. Either way, you’re glad Jake and Abby can still be friends. 

Your feelings appeased and Clarke’s riled up, all of you pile into the car to go out to lunch. And bless them. All of them. Not one of them brings up your mother’s presence at the meet. 

 

…  
After lunch, the real adults drop you and Clarke off at her dorm. On the stairs up to her room, Clarke promises to be quick in packing some things for the weekend, but you know it will take her at least a half hour. While you’ve always had a mind that keeps track of things in linear fashion, Clarke’s tends to be freer in its organization. As a result, she takes longer to do things, but she also has less anxiety and doesn’t overthink things as much. So it balances out. You can’t help the scoff that escapes at that train of thought. 

“What?” Clarke asks warily. She sounds like she’s afraid you’re making fun of her without her knowing why, so you sketch out the basics of what you were thinking. “Well then,” she says, giving you something that can only be described as a noogie, “You can pack my stuff for me since you can do it better and faster.”

It sounds kind of like a joke, but also like a challenge, so you agree. “Fine,” you say as Clarke unlocks her door. “Are you on your period?”

Clarke makes a choking sound that makes you glad she’s not eating or drinking anything. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, I know what the weather is going to be and how long you’re staying, so I know what clothes to pack. I know you’re staying overnight, so I know what toiletries and stuff I need to bring. But we use different hygiene products, and I don’t know where you are in your cycle.” Is that something you’re supposed to know? You feel vaguely guilty about not knowing, but then again, you don’t even really know yours. 

“Uh…I’m good until next week.” Clarke is silent for a bit as she watches you neatly place clothes and toiletries into a small duffle bag and books into her backpack. “Damn, Lexa. You really are good at this. How did you know what books I needed?”

Now that you’re out of the way of her closet, Clarke grabs an outfit and changes in front of you. It’s probably the hundred thousandth time, but you still have to look down to hide your burning cheeks because she’s so beautiful. “Um. You always do your English reading on Saturdays. I figured you didn’t get a chance to do that today, so I packed the book you mentioned reading. Sundays you do biology, so I packed that book too so you can work on it while I go on the long run tomorrow morning. And I know you like to read before you go to sleep. I assumed that was the book on your night table. And your computer and chargers were obvious.”

“I love your brain so much. I’m glad one of us is good at this even if it does mean you have more anxiety, and you think waaaayyy too much.”

You manage to meet Clarke’s eyes and give her a bashful grin. Even though you know each other so well, and there’s no one you’re more comfortable with, she still manages to embarrass you. “Be careful. I think I almost heard a compliment hidden in there.”

“Oh shut up.” She pushes you over, an easy task since you’re crouched unstably on the balls of your feet. “Let’s go. I need to finish that fucking book for English before the party tonight.”

 

…  
The party isn’t exactly fun, but it’s better than you thought it was going to be. Anya must have been in charge of planning, or else your teammates are more thoughtful than you realized, because it’s low-key, and there aren’t many people there—just the women’s cross country team. The men’s team wasn’t invited. And while there are a few six-packs of beer and cider, people drink for appreciation and camaraderie instead of the drunkenness you were expecting.

And Clarke helps. She stays by your side and uses her non-anxious brain to step in to make your social interactions seamless instead of awkward. It’s easy for you to talk to Anya, but for the rest of the women, there are usually long pauses when none of you know what to say. Plus, most of the time you talk to them like you’re a robot with only a vague understanding of colloquial human speech patterns. It’s mostly on you, you know, but you can’t help it even though you know you’re ruining your chances with them. Eventually they’ll give up on you. Tonight, though, you think you might be gaining ground in their eyes. Your new cool clothes help, but mostly it’s Clarke. Somehow, it seems that the women attribute it to you. At any rate, there aren’t any pauses, and people actual smile and laugh when you talk to them instead of giving you that weird pitying look. So it’s better.

What’s best is the sex you and Clarke have once the party disbands at ten thirty (yes, it’s lame, but you all have to be up at seven for the run). You’re not as emotionally numb as last weekend, and Clarke is so, so sweet and gentle with you, so you maybe can’t help yourself when a few (many) tears leak out of your eyes. It takes you a while to convince Clarke they’re happy tears. You don’t know how to handle your emotions, and sometimes you have so many of them that you can’t contain them. Tonight is one of those times. 

On the whole, it’s one of your happiest birthdays. Certainly it’s tainted by loss, and you miss Aden fiercely, but you spent the day with people who love you and treat you well. Even though it doesn’t quite feel like enough, you swallow your doubts, snuggle into Clarke’s side, and tell yourself it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to wrap things up, i think. thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> btw, i have a social work degree and still am uncertain of how a university would deal with with someone in lexa's position. but i think (again, not certain) it would be something like that.


	8. epilogue part 3

Things start to get better after that. It’s slow and arduous, and it’s hard to notice it because you don’t just wake up one day and feel better. The first sign that things are improving happens a few weeks later when you realize that it’s not quite so hard to make yourself go into the dining hall, and you’ve put on a desperately needed fifteen pounds. Your clothes fit better now, and you don’t feel quite so exhausted now that you’re not slowly starving. 

You’re not positive, but as much as you hate it, you think you have to admit that therapy is saving your life. Your therapist is well aware that you’re struggling to function on even the most basic human level, so she starts helping you to work on eating, sleeping, and not dissociating so much. She has you download an app for PTSD that you can use when you’re feeling anxious or not all present. It walks you through guided meditation and grounding exercises so that you’re more aware of your body. Until now you hadn’t realized how disconnected from it you are. By engaging all of your senses, you’re slowly feeling more like a solid person instead of an unwound ball of yarn. The low dose of Paxil they put you on probably helps as well. At any rate, you feel less anxious and more in control of your life. 

As a consequence, you find yourself talking more to people other than Clarke and Anya. Luna’s a great roommate. She doesn’t assume she understands what it was like growing up in your house, but she does try to understand what you tell her and asks how she can help make things less terrible for you. It works. Your dorm room now feels like a safe haven even when she’s there. Sometimes when you’ve met all of your goals for the day—when you’ve eaten three meals and two protein shakes, slept a decent amount, and managed to talk to someone—Luna will cheer, “Minimum champion!” She tells you it’s from Parks and Rec. You’re not quite sure of the context, but it helps remind you that you’re human, so sometimes you repeat it to yourself throughout the day when you accomplish something small.

To help pay for things, you get a work study job on campus. At first you think you’ll work in the library or an office, but then you decide to conquer your fear of the dining hall. So you start working in the kitchens. It’s terrible at first because it’s loud and overwhelming, but you like cooking, and this is a good way to be part of that. Besides, it’s an objectively terrible job most of the time, so you get to bond with your coworkers over it. It’s a surprisingly easy way to make a few more acquaintances, if not quite friends. 

Cross country gets better too. Now that you’ve gained weight, you’re back on a normal training schedule, and you find that your coach was right; you do gain a few positions on the team. Just like high school, most meets you finish behind Anya. It’s a good boost for your confidence. 

Certainly there are still bad days, days when nothing feels real and you just don’t want to live any longer. Not even the grounding exercises that your therapist teaches you help very much. On those days, you get by on autopilot, which is thankfully enough to do well in your classes. You and Anya talked to your teammates, so they know how to recognize the signs because you won’t be able to tell them. They’re generally good people, so they make sure to add more diabetic friendly food to your tray on bad days and don’t let you leave the dining hall until you’ve eaten it all. Sometimes if they catch on early enough, the whole team will go to the smaller food spot on campus instead. It’s more than you could have hoped for.

Aden has kept up a string of text messages and phone calls with you, so you know he’s okay and doing well even if he misses you just as much as you miss him. Against your parents’ wishes, he’s applying to your school, which has offered him an even better scholarship than you received. His recruitment visit in November is the first time you’ve seen him since the night your mom told you to leave. Some of the guys on the team are assholes about both of your teary faces at your reunion, but the rest tell them to shut up. Even though the men’s team often makes you angry and uncomfortable, as a whole they aren’t completely terrible. 

Your parents, though, are still a point of contention with you. You haven’t heard from your dad at all, but your mom has been trying hard to make amends. She comes to the next meet that is in the area and actually hangs around to talk to you afterward. Abby and Clarke bring her to you after your race, looking like they’re escorting a criminal to prison, and you love them for it. You’d discussed your options with Abby. She helped you decide you were willing to talk with your mom, but not alone. So Abby and Clarke follow through, and their devotion to you brings a lump to your throat. 

“Hi, Lexa,” your mom says softly, her shame obvious in her defeated posture. 

You meet her words with what Clarke calls your war face. She says your whole face changes. Your eyes darken and narrow, and your mouth tightens into a stern frown. It’s the face you don when you’re uncertain and afraid. “Hello.” Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Clarke’s lips twitch with amusement at your formal, harsh tone. 

“You look good, strong. Your dad would have been proud to see you today.”

You clench your jaw so tightly your teeth hurt. Abby steps forward, but you hold out a hand to stop her. “Don’t do that. I don’t care what dad thinks. He chose not to be here.”

“You’re right.” Your mom sighs heavily, a shaky sigh that you think is fitting because she’s on shaky ground with you. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I shouldn’t have asked you to leave that night. It’s not—I was worried about how your dad would respond. He’s—you shouldn’t have been the one I asked to leave.”

Her words give you pause. They weren’t what you were expecting to hear. Neither were they what you were hoping to hear. So you need a minute to collect your thoughts. Maybe your dad hasn’t hit you or your mom, but he’s displayed threatening behaviors in the past. It isn’t outside of the realm of possibility that he would have physically assaulted one or both of you if he’d been asked to leave. “It’s…okay,” you say slowly, painfully. Clarke looks like she can’t believe you said that, and you can’t really either. “It was probably safer this way. It hurt me, but I want you and Aden to be safe.”

“He’s not that bad, Lexa,” your mom scoffs. “You’ve built him up in your head like he’s this evil, abusive person. It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”

Clarke steps in then, unable to hold back her righteous anger that sometimes bursts out of her. “Lexa has PTSD,” she says. Through the fingers she splays across the small of your back, you can feel her tension. “She has PTSD because of how your husband treated her, and if you remember, she ended up in the hospital because he taught her she was only worth anything if she ran herself to death. That’s abuse. I don’t know if he’s evil, but Lexa isn’t being unfair. Her feelings matter.”

Your mom is literally taken aback…in that she takes a step back. It’s not clear if she’s uncomfortable with the affection Clarke is showing for you in front of her or if she’s affected by Clarke’s words. It never becomes clear either because your mom just nods slowly. “Okay,” she says. “I just wanted to talk to you and tell you I’m sorry. And that—that I love you. Can I hug you?”

This is the question you were dreading, actually. Of course you want to hug your mom, to recapture even just for a moment a bit of the childhood you’d lost so abruptly. But you’re terrified it will feel strange, like she’s not actually your mother anymore. You crave it so badly, though, that you can’t help but step forward with open arms. And it feels…different, but not utterly foreign. It’s like there’s a wall between you now that wasn’t there before, but her arms still feel familiar, and when she strokes the back of your hair, you can almost pretend nothing has changed. 

When she’s gone, Clarke walks away because she has to take a few moments to calm down. At times her anger scares you, but she tries not to take it out on people who deserve it. Like you, she wants to be good for the people she loves, and she works really hard at it. Abby, though, stays by your side. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” It’s not a lie. You are okay, if shaky and exhausted because you were so nervous while talking to your mom even if you didn’t show it. You aren’t ready to talk about it yet, so instead, you ask, “Why do you come to every meet?” You’ve been wondering this for awhile. Clarke comes because she’s your girlfriend and wouldn’t get to see you otherwise, but you can’t work out why Abby is willing to take off work nearly every weekend just to come see you run and talk with you for a few minutes. 

Abby hesitates at first. “Can…do you want me to be completely honest?”

“Yes, please.”

Abby takes a deep breath like she’s trying to calm her nerves. “You and Clarke were always together when you were growing up. I know lots of moms say this, but I truly mean it: you were my second daughter. Then when Clarke…well, when she was being an idiot, I lost track of you. For five years it felt like I abandoned you. I still followed you in the school district news as you did incredible things, but it wasn’t the same as having your light and your humor around. You were such a funny kid.” Abby breaks off to laugh, and you wonder how long she’s been waiting to say it because it sounds so put together. “God, you were adorable. Then when you came back into my life I found out how rough you had it, maybe how rough you always had it, but I never realized because you did so well. I missed so much of your life, so much of the time when you were hurting so badly. I just want to make up for as much time as I can. I know it won’t ever be the same, but I can try.”

It’s so…much that you don’t know how to respond. You hadn’t realized Abby felt so many things or so deeply for you. Or maybe you thought her presence in your life had to do with your relationship with Clarke. And maybe you hadn’t considered she thought much about you at all when she wasn’t with you. To know that she not only regretted not watching you grow up but also felt guilty that she couldn’t protect you from your dad is difficult to comprehend. And to know she’s trying to make up for it is impossible to comprehend. “I—thank you,” is all you can think to say. Except… “I love you.”

Abby chuckles as she kisses your hand that she’s clinging to tightly. “Yeah, Lexiloo. I love you too. More than life itself.”

Clarke comes back then, her sense of calm restored even if she is lacking some of her usual exuberance. You kiss her firmly because she looks like she needs it and because you’re so grateful she’s in your life.

 

…  
That week you and your therapist call your mom to see if she would like to start talking more regularly, albeit in supervised fashion. It’s like family therapy but through the phone. Despite her presence at two of your meets and apparent readiness to make amends, you’re still surprised when she immediately agrees. “Can we do it during my lunch break? Or right after school?” she asks, nearly breathless. You’re not sure if it’s because she’s excited about the prospect of talking to you again or if she’s run ragged by the children you can hear in the background.

It’s a reasonable if complicated request because it doesn’t match up with your current appointment time. However, after hesitating, your therapist checks her calendar, double checks with you, and agrees to reschedule your appointments for Tuesday afternoons. For the rest of your session after you hang up, you talk with your therapist, establishing ground rules. She reminds you that there will be points that you have to challenge your mom. What you don’t expect is that you’ll have to challenge her during the first conversation you have. 

On the first phone call your mom is talking about your dad, about how she’s afraid of arguing with him, though of course she doesn’t phrase it this way. Emboldened by your therapist’s words from the previous week, you break into her monologue that is mostly meant to make her feel less guilty for how she treated you, and say, “You could leave him you know.”

There’s a pause before she responds. “Wives are meant to be submissive to their husbands. It says it in the Bible, and you know Pastor Titus thinks it’s important. I wouldn’t be welcome at church anymore if I left him.”

“If this is going to work—if we’re going to keep talking and trying to make amends—you’re going to have to take a chance and disagree with Pastor Titus on something at some point.” You kind of can’t believe your own audacity in this moment. Even your therapist gives you an impressed look. If you didn’t care about rhetorical flourish, and a big part of you does, you’d make it more explicit that you’re talking about the fact that you’re gay. But it’s okay because she knows. 

“Lexa…” Your mom heaves a heavy sigh. She’s not that old, but life has been too hard for her, and she is worn down. She’s trying for you, though, and you do love her for that. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll think about it. I just…I don’t want you to go to hell. I worry about that a lot because I don’t know exactly what I think about it.”

It’s something you think about a lot, but unlike your mom, you know exactly where you stand. “It’s strange to me that people are afraid of hell,” you tell her, glad to finally voice your opinion on the topic now that there’s nothing left to lose. “I think people who are afraid of hell are the ones who have never lived through it or don’t realize they have.” You add the last as a concession to the fact that maybe your mom has had as hard of a time as you have. “Once you live through something like hell, especially something that lasts for a long time, it’s not so scary. If there is a hell, and I don’t think there is, I don’t relish the thought of living through it for eternity, but I’m not afraid of it either because I know I could do it. And if there’s a hell, at least by letting myself love Clarke I get to be happy and me for this life. And if there’s not a hell, then I just get to be happy. Worrying about it doesn’t make anything better.”

The conversation ends not long after that; your mom doesn’t seem to know how to respond. But about a month later she tells you that she and your dad have started going to counseling. It makes you want to spit with anger that she only considered counseling after he started treating her like he used to treat you, but at least she’s trying now. You try to hang on to that. 

 

…  
The holidays are hard. Your mom takes you and Aden out for lunch on Christmas Eve. It’s the first time you’ve seen the two of them together since before you left for college. As soon as Aden sees you in the parking lot, he runs up to tell you that he’s decided on going to your school, and you grab him in a big hug. Over his shoulder you see your mom look around nervously, like she’s afraid someone will see her gay daughter spreading gay germs to her son. As much as it makes you want to scream, you focus on Aden instead and remind yourself that she’s trying.

Lunch itself is a bit tense. All of the jokes have more bite to them than usual. But it’s close to normal. You get to show off your new muscles and tell them about your perfect grades. Your mom even encourages you to talk about Clarke. It’s hard not to gush because even though you’ve known that girl forever, you love her so so much. Aden smirks at you from behind his Coke. Your mom clenches her jaw now and then, but mostly she smiles, and it seems genuine. 

As you part ways, your mom gives you a hug and says, “We’ll miss you tonight.” And she hands you a wrapped present that you know is an ornament.

Your family always has a big dinner on Christmas Eve with traditional foods, and you and Aden each open one present: your yearly ornament. It brings tears to your eyes, and you hug her again. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Lexa,” she whispers into your hair.

On your drive home…back to Clarke’s house, you allow yourself to wonder for the first time if you’d be welcome at your parents’ house for Christmas Eve. What would happen if you tried to go to church with them? Would Pastor Titus ask you to leave? Would your dad ask you to leave? You’re not sure, which means you definitely shouldn’t try. It’s not worth the potential rejection and drama it would cause. Maybe next year you’ll be more confident, but this year, you’ll settle for being surrounded by certain love even as you miss your family.

 

…  
New Year’s Eve is yours and Clarke’s time of year, at least in your opinion. Though it’s not technically when you started dating, it is the first time you told her you loved her and when you kissed each other for the first time. The hospital didn’t really count because you were feeling really poorly, and you were so surprised you didn’t really reciprocate. Even when you were little, though, the holiday belonged to both of you. Your two families would get together. The adults would stay upstairs, and you, Clarke, and Aden had the basement to yourselves. Of course there were the dark years which you spent apart, but you don’t want to think about that right now. Time and love are healing those wounds. 

This year, once the darkness and emptiness of your family-less Christmas has passed and the new year approaches, hope returns for you. Aden won’t be there, but all of your friends will: Anya, Raven, Octavia, Lincoln, and even Bellamy. Abby, oddly enough, has a date and is trusting you and Clarke with making sure the house is still intact by morning. 

It’s so, so good to see your friends. Raven and Anya show up together. You hadn’t realized they’d stayed in touch. Shame starts to well up in your stomach, but you force it down. You’ve had a hard semester, so much harder than is fair, so it’s not totally your fault that you’ve been a bad friend. You’ll be better in the future; that’s what you promise yourself. 

Raven gives you an enormous hug that lifts you off the ground. “Long time no see, grounder!” 

“Hey, space girl. How’s MIT? Are you an astronaut yet?” You’re proud of yourself for not pulling away as soon as she sets you down.

Your words draw a scowl from Raven. “No,” she says bitterly. “They told me I’d never pass a physical evaluation. But I revised my plan, and now I’m gonna launch people into space, so you can still call me ‘space girl.’”

“Rocket girl,” you counter. “It’s cooler anyway.”

Raven LIGHTS UP at that. “Fuck. Yeah! That’s so much better. Thanks! How are you? I know things have been kinda shitty…”

“Yeah.” You inhale deeply and breathe out the negativity, just like your therapist taught you. Then you can be honest just like Raven was with you. “Yeah. It’s been difficult. I’m not sure it will ever—I’m not sure my family will ever accept me back. But I’m getting used to that idea, and the Griffins have been better than I could ever have hoped for.” 

Raven gives you another squeeze and lets you go. “Yeah. They’re good at that.”

Then the Blakes and Lincoln arrive. You let Octavia and Bellamy reunite with Clarke, but you grab Lincoln in a hug. Lincoln’s so unbelievably muscular that you’re a little envious. “Still he/him?” you ask. You have at least a million questions about Lincoln’s first year so far at Annapolis, but you don’t want to misgender your friend.

“They/them,” Lincoln corrects gently with a bashful grin, and you notice their killer eyeliner—something that is entirely new. “Still ‘Lincoln,’ though. Annapolis has been surprisingly supportive. Some people are idiots, but I’m getting by.”

The two of you catch up for a bit and rejoin the group. Being with your high school friends is stranger than you thought it would be. At first it felt like no time had passed, but after about an hour, it just feels weird. You’re all in such different places now. You all try to talk about your new friends and schools, but there’s very little in common in your experiences. So you revert to talking about your high school days, reliving old memories fondly. At some point, you and Anya share a look. Neither one of you had idyllic high school experiences. Your home lives were less than ideal. Then you notice the way Raven has curled into her side, the way Anya’s leaned closer so they’re nestled together. You raise your eyebrows in her direction, and she looks stricken, and she flushes. She actually turns red! And she just shrugs like she’s genuinely unsure what’s going on between her and Raven. It’s not wholly surprising to you that she might be interested in Raven. Until now she’s never expressed interest in anyone. It makes sense that it would be Raven.

Even though it’s weird, it’s a pleasant evening. Bringing in the new year with people you care about is really nice. What makes it great is when Aden stops by on his way home. None of you are expecting a knock on the door at two in the morning, much less your little brother to walk in a moment later. Everyone tackles him in a hug.

“I can’t stay,” he wheezes because people are squishing his lungs. “My parents know I’m on my way home. I just wanted to see you guys.” He sends you a pleading look, so you drag him outside and hug him. 

“Are you okay?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’m trying. It’s hard. I just—eight more months until I can go to college, until I can join you. You’re okay with us going to the same school?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait until you’re there. It’ll be like…”

“Family. Well, the way family is supposed to be,” he says darkly. “Good. Okay. I’ve gotta get home.”

He starts to walk away, but then you start to feel panicked so you call after him to wait. “Are you okay?” you ask again once he wheels around to face you. “Like really? You’ll be safe if you go home?”

The look of utter disbelief and defeated laugh tells you a lot. “I don’t know, Lex. As safe as ever, I guess.” Fear must show on your face because he shakes his head. “I’ll be okay. I promise I’ll call you and Abby if things get unbearable.”

“I love you.”

“You too. Happy new year.”

It’s maybe not the happiest end to the evening since everyone heads home about then and you and Clarke head off to bed, but at least Aden showed up. Even if he is struggling, he’s still talking to you, trusting you, loving you. “He’ll be okay,” you say to yourself. 

“He’ll be okay,” Clarke murmurs back sleepily. 

 

…  
On the night before you go back to school, you convince Clarke to bundle up to go on a nighttime walk through her family’s property. It’s something you used to do when you were younger. And just like when you were children, Clarke takes some convincing, but unlike now you bribe her with kisses instead of cookies as she puts on her snow pants, coat, and boots. 

It’s bitter cold outside, but beautiful as you trudge through the foot of snow. At first Clarke grumbles, but eventually quiets and seems to enjoy herself. After a half hour, Clarke leads you to the middle of the yard and tugs you to the ground. The snow welcomes you like a soft bed. As the two of you lie there, looking up at the starry night sky that’s unobscured by clouds, you think about how much things have changed in the past few years. 

“What are you thinking about?” Clarke asks. You barely register the squeeze of her hand through two pairs of thick mittens.

It’s hard for you to put into words, so you lie there in silence for a few minutes. “Just…it really wasn’t that long ago that I didn’t think I’d ever fall in love. I didn’t think I was capable of it. I didn’t feel anything, and I didn’t think I’d live to be eighteen.”

“I didn’t know that,” Clarke murmurs softly when you pause. “I’m glad you chose to live and love me.”

You swallow the lump in your throat at the gentleness you see in Clarke’s eyes. “Me too. But…”

“But?”

“I didn’t always think I was good for you. You’re so extroverted and have such a large personality and…happy. You’re happy. Maybe not always, but you are at heart. And I’m none of those things. I thought I’d hold you back or just fade into the background, ‘your shadow’ I told your mom, and you’d forget me. But the opposite happened. You brought me out of the shadows, and now I’m lying beside you.”

Clarke snorts with amusement.

“Yes,” you allow with a smile. “Obviously literally, but metaphorically too. I think I’m finally equal to you. And I can’t believe how much I love you. It’s so much…more than I ever thought was possible. You’re—I’m not sure how to say this. You’re enough. I miss my family—the idea of them anyway—but I think if I lost you, I’d miss you more. I haven’t made that clear since everything happened. You’re just—you’re enough.”

The two of you lie there, talking quietly, until you’re shivering and have to go back inside. You’re both so young and so in love that you ache from it sometimes. Maybe you’ll spend your lives together or maybe you won’t. You don’t know if you’ll be together forever, but you aren’t afraid to love her anymore. And for now it’s enough. She’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, friends for following this to the end. 
> 
> I have an idea for a Korrasami fic. It's nowhere near a solid idea yet, but keep an eye out if you're interested.


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